


It Started With The Number 3 (and stayed that way)

by blurredink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Crossdressing, Dumbledore's A+ Guardianing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry calls bullshit, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knockturn Alley, M/M, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oh right: NOT a fem!Harry story, The freedom of anonymity, There's A Tag For That, Threesome - M/M/M, Voldemort Dies, and the obstacles, as disguise, this story is blatant self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurredink/pseuds/blurredink
Summary: Another take on WHAT-IF Harry got rid of Voldemort in fifth year? Oh yeah and WHAT-IF he just so happened to fall in love with certain twins? In disguise. Under a wrong name, that is. And even a different gender? Or maybe not. (No fem!Harry)Love the clichés and maybe create some new.Or the one in which Harry gives the headmaster the finger and decides to go exploring the Wizarding World on his own.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Twin Future](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/371088) by LLyNnS. 



> **ATTENTION PLEASE!**  
>  This story is mostly canon for the first five books with just minimal changes to suit the plot, though anything different will be self-explanatory. AU starts with the battle at the Department of Mysteries, Voldemort is defeated, and Harry is a lot more pro-active than in [Harry's Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059648/chapters/11635768). But he will still be shy and naïve in the ‘I never had any romantic experience’ kind of way. This story mainly concentrates on Harry experiencing life from different perspectives and of course the ups and downs of having two twin terrors trying to win his heart…  
> This may sound innocuous, but it also won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, so _please mind the tags_. As always I invite all readers to share ideas or thoughts in the comment section. Have fun!  <3
> 
> **Last full Edit: Decembre 2018**

**18 th June 1996**

Did you know that 3 is just as much a magical number as 7? That it stands for completeness, wholeness and, probably more important and less ironic when one thinks of Horcruxes, the Trinities of Past-Present-Future or Mind-Body-Soul? With the number 3 there always is a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Well, Harry certainly had never thought of the magical properties of numbers before, had never paid much attention to Hermione’s rambles on Arithmancy and the like. That day, though, he wished he had. Maybe it would have prepared him somewhat for what went down the day he brought his friends to the Ministry of Magic in some desperate attempt to save his godfather. Maybe it would have prevented some pain, maybe it would have prevented all that angst and desperation. Then again, if he had known that it would be the last time he would have to confront Voldemort, that it would be the ‘Last Battle’, Harry might have done something crucial different. Maybe that little something would have changed things a lot around, for the good or for the bad.

Who knows?

All Harry knew when he realised that everything had been a set-up, a trap to lure him to the Department of Mysteries, was that he had led his friends into danger so he would fight to bring them back to safety. He didn’t think of some maniacal dark lord as he was dodging spells left and right, corralling his friends into the fighting stances they had practised in the DA. He didn’t stop to question when Nagini slithered her way into the Death Chamber just as the members of the Order of the Phoenix made their entrance. There was only concentration on his mind, spell-weaving, jumping, rolling, running, incapacitating as many Death Eaters as possible, trying in vain to protect those he loved. He didn’t think much at all when he saw Neville and Luna work together and severe the great serpent’s head off cleanly. He didn’t have the time to think much on the fact that a second Horcrux was now gone, following the diary of his second year near silently. He didn’t even get to be smug about the fact that the Diary Tom back then had been a lot more talkative about his immortality plans than the Voldemort of the present seemed to be aware of. No, Harry didn’t even register that Nagini got a bite in on Neville before her anticlimactic end.

Spellfire. Screaming. Sirius at his side, acting way too cheerful for the situation.

And then, from one moment to the next, all Harry could really focus on was Bellatrix Lestrange hitting Sirius with some spell he couldn’t identify. All he saw was his godfather stumbling, eyes going wide, and then falling. Fluttering material, strange murmurs of voices he couldn’t quite understand, a cool sensation that had somehow been drawing him in when he had first entered the Death Chamber. Something intangible reaching out for the figure of his godfather as he fell backwards to the Veil.

No.

Stop.

 _Please_.

And Harry had never been more grateful for the underestimated qualities of werewolves than he was the very moment Remus somehow managed to get a grip on Sirius’ old battle robes. Time was still stretching into molasses, Harry was still moving too slowly. Sirius touched the Veil. Remus got hold of him and _yanked_. They both fell from the dais and onto the chamber floor in one tangled mass of limbs.

Sirius wasn’t moving.

Then Bellatrix was cackling and taunting and red tinged Harry’s vision. He was off running, Remus’ shouts not really registering. He followed her, determined to… to… he had no idea, he was just acting on instinct. Or, in hindsight, maybe something else had been influencing his actions. Leaving his friends behind still fighting for their lives, following Bellatrix of all people even though Sirius was right there. Yes, hindsight always knows better.

Who would have thought that possessing Harry would be Voldemort’s end?

Harry certainly hadn’t and he never told anyone what really happened in those excruciatingly painful moments. Not Dumbledore, not his friends. How was he to put into words how it felt to have Voldemort’s vile presence penetrating his very essence… and then encountering more than just Harry? How was he to explain that Voldemort failed to reconnect with his own soul piece hiding away inside Harry? A fragment of a shredded soul no one had been aware of, least of all Harry. How to tell that three souls were just _too much_ for one body to take? He couldn’t really explain it, but that very moment was when Harry realised he himself was a Horcrux. The shock, the disgust, the fear, the loathing, and then the repulsion. The pain. No, he was never going to tell anyone about that.

Though, maybe Harry should have tried to tell somebody. Maybe Dumbledore would have been able to explain it better, help Harry work through it, but to Harry the whole experience felt infinitely personal and vaguely disgusting. It left him feeling somewhat tainted. But the worst was the hollow feeling in the aftermath. The Horcrux inside his scar had been a part of him for so long that when it was obliterated in the fight with its original soul, it left behind an emptiness that would take a long time to fill. He couldn’t tell anyone what had inhabited his scar and he certainly would not tell how he felt in its absence.

 

Harry defeated Voldemort in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic when the Dark Lord tried to possess him. To the public it would be described as an epic battle, though Harry knew Dumbledore had been the only one that actually fought Voldemort in the literal way. Harry himself had simply tried to get rid of the pain the fighting souls inside him had created, to hold onto the scarce good he knew to not get lost to the Dark. Not that anyone would listen to him. They never had, they never would, and so things went like this:

Dumbledore fought Voldemort, Voldemort managed to possess Harry, his own Horcrux, changed forever during its time with Harry as its host, rejected him, and Harry experienced a pain that would still haunt him years from that day. He just wanted it to stop. All-consuming, that was what it had been and all Harry had been able to do was beg, push, plead, push some more, and hold on tight with every ounce of will… until everything went black.

Anticlimactic, really, at least for those standing and watching, staring at him, from the outside while Harry fought for his sanity, the right to his body, his mind, his very soul.

He didn’t wake up until Hermione fluffed up the pillows of his hospital bed on the third day after the battle. The school year was over before Harry got to even leave the infirmary, his friends had all survived though it was still touch and go with Neville. The press hailed Harry a hero, the Saviour, and Dumbledore shielded him from most of it. He was hustled onto the Hogwarts Express, the ride just flying by and…

And maybe Sirius would wake up from the coma he had fallen into some day soon and Harry would finally have the family he always wished for. Or maybe the number 3 had changed things around so thoroughly that one boy would finally take his life into his own hands and get to flourish.

And things would never be the same.


	2. Stifling

**July 12 th 1996**

The room was stifling hot. Outside the window to the smallest bedroom of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey the sun was setting, drenching the dusty neighbourhood in a deep orange glow for a few more seconds. Not that the vanishing sunlight did anything for the heat tormenting South East England for the last weeks. To Harry, laying unmoving on his threadbare mattress and staring at the ceiling, there was barely a difference anyway as he was once again locked up in his bedroom. Even with the window wide open and the sun down there was no breeze whatsoever.

It was nearly two weeks into the summer hols and he was back at the Dursley’s. Apparently ridding the world of a dark lord did not warrant him having a happy summer for once. Not that it would have been happy even if Harry had been allowed to stay somewhere else, no matter that Voldemort was now gone. How could he be happy if his godfather was laid up in some hospital bed, not quite dead but in a coma?

He remembered last year when he had desperately been waiting for messages of his friends, but they had been instructed not to tell him anything of significance. So while Harry had endured another summer with his loving relatives, his best friends had been holed up at Grimmauld Place together with Sirius and occasionally the Order of the Phoenix. Harry had been so mad back then, now he was just numb. Oh he was receiving letters from his friends and this time around no one had told them to keep secrets. But it didn’t exactly make him feel better to hear all about Hermione’s skiing trip with her parents, Luna’s adventures somewhere on the continent searching for strange creatures, Ron’s laments on how boring it was to spend all his time with the whole of the Weasley family… or reading placating notes from Neville, obviously written under pain as his friend was still healing from Nagini’s bite.

The Wizarding World was in hysterics about their so-called Saviour, hailing Harry all kinds of things from the next coming of Merlin to the reincarnation of Godric Gryffindor. The Daily Prophet speculated at least twice a week about a summer fling of his or another, about all the outrageous stuff he apparently was getting up to, and here Harry was, prisoner in a smelly little room. His summer excitements ever since the end of the first week back consisted of being allowed to use the shower and fill some empties with tap water before being shoved back inside his spectacular room. At least this year Aunt Petunia mostly remembered to bring him up leftovers or canned food. If she didn’t, Dudley would shove some sweets through the cat flap. Considering it was Dudley, parting with sweets probably was close to a love confession. Never mind the humiliation that came with being fed through a bloody pet opening in his door.

The reason Harry was in there and not out working the yard or doing whatever other chores his aunt would come up with, was that currently Harry was pretty much useless to her. He simply couldn’t see, or rather, he couldn’t see clear enough to do any chores whatsoever. It had happened when Harry was mowing the backyard one evening. He had been daydreaming, there was still so much confusion about Voldemort’s demise, and Harry hadn’t received any explanation. Though, yeah, that was partly his fault for not telling anyone what had happened during his ‘possession’. The thing is, mowing and daydreaming don’t work so well together and before he could really comprehend what was going on, he had stumbled, his glasses had taken flight off his sweaty nose, and then there was a mean crunching sound from the mowing machine. And this was how Harry Potter ended up half-blind and useless to his harping aunt, which led to him stumbling around the house, knocking things over, burning food and generally making a mess. He wasn’t surprised when he found himself locked in his bedroom the afternoon after his accident with Hedwig as his only company.

Harry couldn’t go out. He couldn’t open the door with magic as he was still underage, hero or not. He didn’t dare sneaking out when he was allowed bathroom time, because he was quite certain they wouldn’t let him back in again. He couldn’t even cut his hair without scissors or a knife at his disposal, because for some reason his cutting knife for potions ingredients had done a runner. It was nowhere to be found in his vast trunk, though a lot of other junk cluttering the space was making it rather hard to be sure. At this point his wayward locks, which had already been somewhat longish during fifth year, were reaching past his chin. He couldn’t make out much in the mirror, but he wasn’t too impressed with his looks at the moment.

Hedwig hooted from her perch near the open window, tearing Harry away from his reminiscence. He was about to say something to her when his uncle’s voice boomed through his door, nearly making the wood vibrate.

“Boy, make that beast shut up or you won’t like the consequences!”

With a sigh Harry thumped his head back against the flat pillow, suppressing a groan. He was stuck, a prisoner in what was supposed to be his home. He was a hero outside these walls and yet he wasn’t even granted basic human rights in here. And no one was doing anything.

A flutter of wings and white feathers obscured his vision for a moment before Hedwig settled on his knee. Staring at her in confusion, Harry was just about to reach out and pet her, when she shuffled and gave him an imperious stare. Having successfully caught his attention, Hedwig looked deliberately to the open window and back at Harry, head cocked and something mischievous sparkling in her wide eyes. He followed her gaze, expecting another post owl or something, but there was nothing there. Harry couldn’t even make out much of the single tree standing in the Dursley’s backyard the way he was currently lying down. Well, it would have been a brownish-green blob anyway.

“What…?”

For a second he thought the expression on her pretty face was very close to a scowl, as much as owls could scowl anyway. Then she repeated the gesture and this time Harry got the hint. There was a perfectly usable way out for him right there. Maybe _he_ should do something about the situation.

Actually… why not? Why the fuck was he putting up with all this, why was he letting others decide what was best for him? There was no dark lord after him anymore and he had read in the newspaper that many of the Death Eaters had either been apprehended at the Ministry or been caught shortly after the battle. Apparently most of them had no understanding of modern times and stood out like a sore thumb whenever trying to hide in the Muggle World. Sure, there were bound to be some sequestered away in their hidey holes or, like the Malfoys, hiding in plain sight. But Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. It was over, his task was done, and he wanted out. He wanted his freedom or at the very least the simple rights everyone else was granted. Sitting up abruptly, Harry smiled in the general direction of the white blob that was his owl he had just dislodged.

“Thanks, beautiful,” he told her softly, careful not to make his voice carry beyond the room, “You’re right. I should just go.”

Maybe it was a bout of teenage rebellion and perhaps he would come to regret this decision, but Harry simply had enough. There was no valid reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to stay somewhere else for this summer, without Voldemort about there was nothing truly making him stay where he obviously wasn’t wanted apart from his own fears. And he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.

With careful movements Harry got up off the bed and opened his trunk. He considered the contents for a moment, but was really too excited to think too far ahead. He changed into a fresh jeans and t-shirt combo, pulled out his favourite hooded jumper, stuffed a clean pair of pants into his pocket and put on his least worn out sneakers. Next was his school satchel and never before had he been so glad for inlaid featherweight charms. Upending it into the trunk, he refilled it with school books from all years that he deemed most useful. Locking the trunk and pulling it into the darkest corner of the room, hoping to make it seem as inconspicuous as possible, Harry went back down on his knees to pry open the loose floorboard under his bed. There was no room for his photo album in the satchel, but it would be safe in the hidden space for now. What Harry really wanted was his invisibility cloak and the moleskin pouch Hagrid had once gifted him. In there were still some knuts and sickles from the last year, but no muggle money. He had never seen the need to exchange anything if he couldn’t even be sure he would have access to it during the summer. Not that he would be using the little bit of money he actually had at hand anytime soon if he could help it.

Standing straight again, all that was left was shoving his wand into his back pocket, donning jumper and cloak (and wishing he could use cooling charms), and of course sending Hedwig out to Ron. He couldn’t leave her here, especially not if he wasn’t sure when or even if he would ever return.

“Right,” he told himself as he watched the white owl blob rapidly disappearing in the distance, “You’re going to run in the dead of night against the headmaster’s instructions, Harry.” Taking a deep breath, he climbed up on the windowsill, eying the drop cautiously. “Sounds fun.” That said Harry Potter vanished into the dark of a sweltering summer’s night, not looking back once.

 

He had been walking down Privet Drive, securely hidden beneath his cloak, vaguely aiming for the next best public transport. Bus or train, it didn’t matter, he would take whatever he caught first. Halfway down the road, though, he had realised that yes, it was a warm summer’s night and not likely to cool down anytime soon, but he still needed a place to stay for the night. He could remember spending nights outside during much worse conditions when his relatives felt he needed to ‘learn his place’ again. But no matter the weather right now, he wanted away from here and he would need some kind of home base for the rest of the summer. Preferably someplace that would allow him to visit Sirius in the hospital. He couldn’t go to Grimmauld Place or he would find himself back where he had started like so much return mail the moment Dumbledore was made aware. That meant the Burrow was also out and Remus was likely to stay at headquarters anyway. Not that Harry would have wanted to impose on the man, he had enough to struggle with as it was. If the way Harry felt about Sirius’ condition was anything to go by, to Remus it must be physically painful. He hoped they at least let him visit his incapacitated mate.

Shaking away the glum thoughts, Harry stopped at the turn into Wistera Walk pondering where else he could go. With no money at hand a room at the Leaky Cauldron wasn’t a possibility and it would be way too public a place anyway. There were bound to be other places like that, but his knowledge of the Wizarding World was woefully incomplete. He would simply have to look, but not at this time of night, not when even defending himself would get him in trouble. Really, someone needed to take a real close look at that ridiculous _Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery_.

Staring after some giggling teens in the distance, Harry was nearly tempted to turn around. Surely he would find a way to sneak back up to his room. No one had to know he had left, no one had to know about this pathetic attempt at freedom-

Wait. Hadn’t he heard Aunt Petunia going on about the ‘Special Friday’ in the Woking Shopping Centre? Which, apart from a lot of customer-luring bargains, apparently offered special opening times from 8 in the morning to just shy of midnight. Harry snorted. If Luna were here, he was sure she would tell him the Wrackspurts obviously wanted him to go there. Looking down at his old wrist watch, Harry considered his options. It was nearly 11 pm now, but if he managed to catch the train at the Woking Railway Station just past the north end of Magnolia Crescent… Yes, he nodded to himself, a slightly unhinged grin forming; he would spend the night hidden in a mall. It worked in movies, after all. **(*)**

* * *

It had been years since he had been here and the shopping centre had changed dramatically from what Harry remembered from his childhood before Hogwarts. Back then he would often trot behind Aunt Petunia, carrying her bags and generally feeling overwhelmed with all the lights and people he wasn’t used to. It wasn’t much different now, maybe even worse with the packed halls and stores, the crowds pushing against each other and all the flashing advertisements. There was everything, various different clothing stores, jewellers, shops with so many odds and ends that Harry had no idea what they were for in most cases, furnishings and even an optician, at least that’s what Harry identified after carefully making his way over and squinting at the ads.

Suddenly he found himself stumbling when someone walked right into his invisible self and frantically making a grab for his cloak. If anyone saw his shortly appearing feet, they probably wrote it off as imagination. Pressing himself into a corner near a bin, watching the many people around and listening to his frantic heartbeat, Harry made a plan. First things first, if he was to spend the night here, he needed to get into his chosen store before they closed up. So what would he need? Food, his grumbling stomach decided for him, and maybe a place to sleep unnoticed until the centre opened up in the morning again.

Noticing the crowds slowly thinning, Harry took another look at his wrist watch, noting that they should be closing up soon. Right. Everything he needed was right there... And yet he couldn’t take anything. Not the nice clothes, nor new glasses. The former because even if he managed to sneak passed the people and snag something without raising any alarm, each and every piece was bound to be secured with these nifty little gadgets that started some horrendous noise if you tried leaving without paying and getting them removed. He had seen it happening once as a child. The latter, glasses, were of course also locked in, but furthermore… Harry was fairly sure there would be no glasses with already prescribed lenses waiting for him. Not to mention that he had no idea what prescription he actually needed.

The food, though, was fair game.

At least that’s what Harry thought until he reached one of the many stalls and realised there was no way he was getting any of the offerings on display without getting behind the counter. The smells were amazing, sweet and savoury and all around fascinating for someone who hadn’t that much variation in their diet so far. Thinking fast, Harry weighed his options, watching the personnel in some of the stores start herding people out in a friendly, still unhurried way. He was pretty sure the Market Walk would be closed up by now and …wasn’t there a grocer somewhere around here? And that’s when Harry realised that letting oneself drift with the crowds when half-blind was a very dumb idea, because now he had no idea in which part of the shopping centre he actually was. He knew there was a food court somewhere, but had no idea in which direction he should go looking for it. If any grocers were in this part of the centre at all, probably not on the level he currently was on. Right. Where were the stairs?

Cursing under his breath at his horrible eyesight, Harry made a careful beeline to what looked like escalators. Perhaps. Maybe. At least the people blobs seemed to vanish into the floor there and others seemed to be rising up into the air, so Harry was rather certain of this guess. Jumping on, Harry rode the moving staircase down a level and found the grocer he had been looking for. Slinking past some harried looking ladies, he snuck through the shelves and down some aisles, stomach clenching at all the food around. Letting an apple vanish beneath his cloak in passing, he started munching on it while deciding what else he would be able to get away with. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble and he already felt bad enough for even taking the apple. He calmed his conscience with remembering some report on the telly he had half-listened to once and which Uncle Vernon had commented on quite derisively. He thought he remembered hearing about all the still good food that would get disposed of after hours simply because of some law or another, or maybe it had had something to do with expire dates, but anyway, the point being that much of the food now on display would never get sold. They wouldn’t miss it, he told himself firmly, and opened a chocolate bar he had filched from an empty aisle.

He managed to eat his fill before the announcement of impending closing came through the speakers, but didn’t dare taking anything but unpackaged fruit out of the store. He wasn’t exactly up to date with muggle stuff so he wasn’t sure if there was anything similar to the noisy gadgets on clothing on any of the food. Riding up the escalator again, he squinted at the emptying halls, nibbling on his lip. He needed somewhere to stay for the night and there was bound to be a place selling beds or similar things… if only he could actually make out the advertisements.

Some time later – and he was still unsure how he had found his way at all – saw Harry in a store selling what seemed to be high-quality furniture. He was scouring the different arrangements for the perfect place to sleep, preferably out of sight so that if he lost the cloak while asleep, he wouldn’t be at direct risk. That’s when the main lights went out and the store was plunged into darkness, leaving him blinking rapidly. Alright, calm breaths. He could do this, he was half-blind anyway, this didn’t make that much a difference. It took more than a few moments of him stumbling about, arms flailing, before his eyes adjusted to the spare lighting from the emergency signs.

Right in front of him was a set-up of an elaborate bedroom, lavish and artfully decorated and colour-coded. He eyed the enormous bed. Maybe he should hide in a pull-out linen box? It would definitely protect him from being caught on camera or found by employees in the morning. Touching the heavy wood, Harry dismissed that idea hastily. He would be able to squeeze in there and with some wiggling maybe even be able to close it from the inside, but… nope. Just no. He had had enough of cramped dark places for an entire lifetime.

In the end he decided on one of the less fancy beds on display, one not in direct line of sight but half hidden behind some huge poster featuring a pretty girl with long black hair for some reason. Curling up in his invisibility cloak, Harry stared unseeingly up at the poster, listening as the shopping centre around him slowly closed down, personnel leaving, doors and blinds being shut until all he could hear was the faint humming of the emergency lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope I got across Harry’s lack of knowledge on how both the muggle and wizarding world actually work. :)
> 
>  **(*) Little Whinging** is a fictitious place in the county Surrey.  
>  According to Harry Potter Wikia Harry probably lives in northern Surrey, perhaps around Staines. So in this story Little Whinging is located in the district Woking. I looked up what way he would probably have taken, which means Woking Railway Station as well as the Woking Shopping Centre do actually exist. Though, in reality the centre was only founded in 1992, so Harry couldn’t have been there before going to Hogwarts.  
> I’m taking liberties with the structure of the shopping centre too, though there really are shops there that sell everything Harry refers to. Names, brands etcetera are deliberately not mentioned.


	3. Re-naming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice Harry doing and seeing stuff that should be impossible with the way his eyes are described. Yes, that’s intentional. ;)

The next day started too early even for Harry. He had never thought about the time the personnel of the stores would need to ready everything for opening, and he certainly hadn’t taken overenthusiastic managers into account. So Harry, armed with a couple of tangerines from yesterday’s haul, was out of the shopping centre long before the sun could start frying the streets again.

He had pondered for a moment summoning the Knight Bus, but thought better of it. If the wizarding populace hadn’t known how to recognise him before, they certainly did now what with his picture constantly splashed over the front pages. He didn’t think there had been a day in the last few weeks he wasn’t featuring the headlines – even if the pictures used looked ridiculously old to him. So muggle means it was, long live the invisibility cloak.

He couldn’t say he had ever been more grateful for the announcement of each station as even plastered against a window pane of the train Harry was unable to make out much of the outside world. He didn’t dare take a seat in fear someone would try sitting themselves on his invisible hide. So it was with much relief that he left the stifling air of the train to Charing Cross Road, London, only to run headlong into the humid madness that was the capital during midday heat.

Charing Cross Road had never felt this endlessly long before, and when Harry finally reached his first destination of the day he was quite dehydrated. The little stint in one of the public restrooms of the mall hadn’t provided him with a means to carry any of the tap water and the heat was getting to him. In the privacy of his mind Harry admitted that his actions of last night had been painfully Gryffindor and not in the good way. He would need to learn to cultivate his inner Slytherin more, plan ahead, be cunning, you get the drift. But for now he was just thankful that some inner feeling… guide… something had led him to the most magical place in the proximity, the Leaky Cauldron. He had been afraid he would have to actually ask his way around, unable to read any street signs as he was, but something had insistently been tugging him in a certain direction.

The pub was as unassuming from the outside as ever and, after a brief check of his invisibility cloak, Harry went inside, trying to open the door as little as possible. It didn’t stop Tom the barman from looking up, making Harry freeze in place. But when the heavy set man just shrugged and started muttering about bar gnomes, Harry dared to move a few feet inside. It was just as dingy and worn looking as he remembered, yet the air was noticeably cooler than outside. Yay for magic.

Still, the sight had Harry mournfully thinking of the very nice and comfortable room he had inhabited here in his third year. There was no way he could rent one now, even if he had the monetary means. Looking at the few patrons enjoying either the cool air, lunch or both, Harry once again wished he could be like that. A wizard like any other, sitting undisturbed in a pub, not having to fear mass swamping like he dimly remembered happening at the Hogsmeade train station. He shuddered. That had been unsettling. It wasn’t just reporters hounding him back then, but everyday people as well. He had recognised many faces from his trips to Hogsmeade, not to mention his fellow students had been right there with the masses. If it hadn’t been for his select friends and a few professors, Harry would have never even made it onto the train ho- …to London.

His stomach made itself known at the homely scents of the Leaky’s famous luncheon menu, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten more than a few fruits today and not much more the whole day yesterday. But he remembered the prices for the dishes enough to know that with his current finances he wouldn’t be able to afford more than one of the many soups and something cold to drink. He wasn’t about to spent his last money on food, he was used to going without for days, but he certainly would make use of the restroom again. For some reason wizarding tap water always smelled and tasted a lot better than that at Privet Drive, but maybe that was just his imagination. He certainly had no problem imagining everything at the loathsome house, even the water from the taps, as contaminated by the Dursley’s vileness.

Sighing as he splashed the heavenly chill onto his face and neck, Harry pondered his next steps. So he had reached the Wizarding World undetected, his relatives had probably not even noted his absence yet what with him being of no use to them any longer. He longed to simply walk up to Gringott’s and get some funds with which he would be able to rent some small room hidden down some uninteresting road no one would even think of looking for him at. Just, even though there were painfully large sums of galleons under his name at the Goblin bank, Harry couldn’t access any. Not yet at least. The Potter family vault was not meant to be accessed by the heir until maturity at seventeen, still a good year from now. And hadn’t it been for one not-so-simple fact, Harry would have no need to do so anyway. He never spent more than he needed, buying school supplies and spending money on his friends for presents, but he rarely ever indulged himself. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had bought something solely for himself. Even his sweets he shared. Now, though, there was nothing left in his trust fund, because Harry had used all his money to ensure Sirius’ continued treatment.

Yes, for the first time in his life Harry had ruthlessly used his name and money to get what he wanted. It was one of the only things he clearly remembered doing before being hustled away to the Dursley’s. Because Pettigrew had to be one of those Death Eaters still on the loose, which meant Sirius’ freedom was still up in the air, wizards were more likely to throw the comatose man back into Azkaban than treating him. But his godfather _needed_ treatment. So Harry had done what he needed to, to ensure just that. Sirius was currently being treated in a warded private room at St. Mungo’s, paid for with the money from Harry’s trust fund. He had known Remus didn’t have the means to get his mate help, the Black accounts were inaccessible for them, and no one else seemed to even have time to think about it, so really, it was the logical way for Harry. Still, with Kingsley now pending Minister, he dearly hoped Sirius’ case would finally be looked into fairly. Only, with the clean-up of the mess Voldemort and his cronies had apparently left the Ministry in, it wasn’t a priority by far. He only hoped his funds would hold out until then.

In the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron, once again re-adjusting his cloak, Harry decided on a way of action. Summarising his situation, he had no money, still the trace on his wand which meant no magic and therefore no sneaking lodging in the Muggle World, and he couldn’t risk being seen, not to mention his abysmal eyesight. Which, basically, left him with no real options, but he wouldn’t be Harry Potter if that were to stop him.

* * *

Knockturn Alley was probably a dumb decision. It was a dark, suspicious place no one risked going unarmed. It was a place ‘proper’ wizarding folk would not go, at least not by daylight, for fear of their reputation being tarnished. One did not go to Knockturn Alley if one was not at the very least Darkish in magical and/or political terms. So, really, it was the perfect place for Harry to hide in plain sight. No one would expect the Saviour, the Light poster boy, to go _there_. Now he just had to survive his trip and find a way to go around the dark alley unrecognised.

When had this turned from a summer’s escape to survival training?

Stepping to the side of the road and into the shadows of a huge pile of rotting wood slaps, Harry considered the passer-bys for a while. Most everyone was wearing a hood of some kind, hair was combed deep into faces to obscure features, and he noticed no one actually meeting anyone’s gaze. But, the longer he stood there just watching, the more Harry realised that these people, hurrying past and looking either very questionable or scared, were only visitors. They were not the permanent residents of Knockturn Alley. Those were another matter altogether. He went a little wide-eyed when he saw a man, no, creature, with scaly skin and what appeared to be actual horns opening a window of one of the sad looking flats of the upper floors above the stores. And that bloke wasn’t the only non-human he saw once he managed to look passed the obvious. They weren’t even trying to be inconspicuous like the harried people with the hoods and stuff, and yet they were a lot less noticeable. Quirking an eyebrow at an older woman who clearly had some Harpy gene sweeping a doorstep, Harry decided it was most likely their complete lack of trying that hid them better than anything. They looked so at home it took a second or even third glance to really take note of their presence, and that was with the sometimes very obvious looks.

Tearing himself away from his observations when he felt the heat once more taking a toll on him, Harry decided to risk taking the cloak off for a moment. He was careful to stay in the tall shadow of the wood pile as he did so, breathing easier the moment he took off both cloak and jumper. It was fascinating how even during the blindingly bright hours of a summer’s day the shadows of Knockturn Alley appeared darker than those out in Diagon Alley. The whole street appeared much more shadowed than its counterpart, though that might have been because it was a lot narrower, making the buildings on each side tower over the whole place with an ominous air. Either way, it was the same heat here as outside and he still needed to find a place to stay, preferably with a job attached, because at one point he would have to eat no matter what.

Squatting down and rolling up the legs of his jeans, he eyed what he hoped to be a pub a good way down the road, near a turn that led to Merlin knew where. Maybe he could ask the owner if they knew about a job occasion around, a person owning a pub was bound to hear a lot of things, after all. Right. If he pulled the oversized jumper on again and took a leaf out of the harried visitors’ book with the hood, he might not go unnoticed, but most likely unrecognised. His clothes certainly looked ratty enough to fit right in, though he noticed some of the patrons appearing rather distinguished even though it was clear they had tried to ‘dress down’ for the occasion. Patting down his hair over his scar, for the first time thankful for not having been able to cut it, and pulling on the hooded jumper again, Harry braved the alley once more. This time without the safety net of his invisibility cloak.

 

The ramshackle building really was a pub, Harry decided squinting at the interior, but not one of a kind he had ever seen in real life. Apart from the strange fact that the whole building was being held up by stilts of some kind, it looked more like a saloon out of one of the western movies Dudley had fairly absorbed sometime around them being thirteen. Right down to the swinging half-door thingies. And right now it was mostly empty which Harry supposed was a good thing. He didn’t want to announce his presence to the whole street, after all. The less people saw him, the less risk of being recognised. Later he would laugh a little bit hysterically at that thought.

Moving carefully around the small round tables more or less evenly situated in the clearly magically enlarged place, Harry focused in on the person blob moving behind the bar. Size and stature indicated a man, but he would wait addressing them until he was close enough to be sure. It proved to be unnecessary as the barman, and yes, it really was a man, wasn’t giving him the time of day. Harry was pretty sure he had been noticed and assessed the very moment he stepped through the door, yet no one had said a word and now there he stood, feeling incredibly insignificant and vulnerable, and the bloke wasn’t even paying attention to him.

“Um,” Harry tried, clearing his throat politely and wincing when he felt more than saw dark eyes pierce him before the man turned away again. “S-sir? Excuse me?”

No reaction. He squinted at a movement that indicated the barman having reached for a glass and the movement of his other arm looked like he was polishing it or something. Could this get any more cliché?

“Please, Sir, I have a question,” he tried again. Nothing.

The man actually moved further down the counter, half turning away from Harry. A clear dismissal. With a scowl Harry straightened up. He was obviously not wanted, but Godric help him if he just turned tail like that.

“Hey,” he snapped at the barman blob, smacking his hand down on the counter for good measure. “I’m talking to you!”

A second later Harry suddenly remembered where he was when the whole room seemed to freeze. A chill running down his spine, he let his wand drop into his hand, wishing desperately he could see clearly. Then there was a sigh managing to convey what was either a very annoyed reaction or simply world-weariness, but somehow it made Harry relax just the tiniest bit.

“Welcome to Bandy-Legs,” the barman drawled at him, voice strangely raspy, “Knockturn Alley’s highest pub, and the only place you probably won’t find yourself poisoned. Most days. The name’s Ethelred Fergus Wanlockhead. Now, what?”

His tone of voice was decidedly sarcastic right up to his last phrase, making Harry feel dumb for even opening his mouth. Still, he had come here to ask a question and he would at least try. There was no use hightailing it now that he already had Mr. …Wanlockhead’s attention – and probably that of everyone else present.

“I’m looking for a job and a place to stay around here,” he stated, focusing narrowed eyes on the man behind the counter, “Would you happen to know where to point me?”

Another moment of silence followed and he felt like he was once again being scrutinized, he imagined Mr. Wanlockhead’s intense gaze wandering over him from top to bottom. He wasn’t sure of the result.

“Was wonderin’ what a lass like you’d be doing around here,” he finally deemed to answer, making Harry start. Wait, what? “So what’s your name, little girly, and you sure you don’t wanna run back to your mummy’s robestrings?”

The tone of voice was mocking and with the man now closer Harry could make out the condescending tilt of his mouth. But there was something in those near-black eyes that made Harry hesitate to snap and correct him. He was being mistaken for a girl and he was being talked down to, but… there was no recognition whatsoever and that was probably what let Harry answer the way he did:

“I’m Ha- …Harley.” He cleared his throat, shifting nervously. “Just Harley.” **(*)**

He thought he saw the condescending mouth twitch in amusement for a second, but it was gone in a blink, replaced by a blank expression. Still, something was different to the man’s demeanour now, a barely there change that was for some reason vaguely reassuring.

“So a little bunny, huh,” the barman – pub owner? – drawled again.

He was eying Harry with eyes nearly as dark as Snape’s, but where the spy’s eyes had always seemed bottomless, in Mr. Wanlockhead’s something constantly seemed to be shifting. It was intriguing and unsettling at the same time, just like the whole of Knockturn Alley. And yet, Harry felt the same _something_ that had guided him half-blind through London swell warmly in his chest, like an affirmation of some kind.

“Do somethin’ about your appearance, lass, and I’ll consider it,” he suddenly leered, making Harry scowl up at him indignantly. Right, so, first he was mistaken for a girl and now he was being mistaken for an _ugly_ girl. “Take a bath upstairs, wash that mop of hair of yours and use some cleanin’ and mendin’ spells on your clothes. Ain’t a fancy place, don’t get fancy customers, but I’ll at least have my waitresses look somewhat neat.”

Oh. So did that mean he got a job? Right here? Just like that?

“But… If I use magic outside of school, I’ll be expelled before I can spell ‘Quidditch’,” Harry argued, though really, more for appearance’s sake.

What did he care if the man thought him unsightly (or a girl for that matter), it really did sound like he would get this job. It was a lot more a lot sooner than he had expected. Though, getting laughed at had not exactly been on his list.

“You’re at Knockturn Alley, lass,” the man chuckled somewhat darkly. “Every single brick is drenched in magic. No one’s gonna be able to trace a spell to you and none of the patrons care if you’re of age or not.”

Well, that would make things a lot easier. Staring back at the black eyes, Harry nibbled at his bottom lip unsurely. Should he really take the man up on his offer? He had a sneaking suspicion that Wanlockhead only offered because he thought Harry was a girl. And wasn’t it in situations just like this the girls in Dudley’s movies always made the wrong decision – agreeing – and regretting it later? Alright, so maybe he shouldn’t base all his assumptions and decisions on movies, half-listened to ones at that, and no, he would not think about how pathetic it was that he really had no other experience. Then again, this was exactly what he had been looking for. A job and with some luck a place to stay, even if it meant coming into contact with a lot of people. It was a pub, after all. Then again, if he was the ‘waitress’, no one would look at him as Harry Potter, no one would even think of Harry Potter in such a context, which made it a lot less probable he would be recognised. And he didn’t think any of the people he was close to would frequent such a place.

Looking Mr. Wanlockhead over once more, studying the dark eyes that were staring right back, Harry gave a hesitant nod. If the bloke’s intentions were anything but what it said on the tin, he would get a nasty surprise the moment he tried anything. Now that Harry knew he could get away with using magic, he felt a lot safer. Defending himself from some potentially lecherous bloke was well within his capacities. **(*)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mental high-five to those that can explain the connection between Wanlockhead’s name and his description of Bandy-Legs being “Knockturn Alley’s highest pub”.
> 
>  **(*) Harley.** I know, it’s a cliché and everyone has different opinions on how ‘fem!Harry’ (even if he is only going to crossdress) should be named. I chose ‘Harley’ because for one it’s unisex and also because I simply like the name.  
>  The name ‘Harley’ is from a surname which was from a place name, itself derived from Old English hara "hare" and leah "woodland, clearing". So basically it means “from the hare’s meadow” which is why Wanlockhead calls him a bunny.
> 
>  **(*) Please note:** Harry is being incredibly naïve. You should not simply accept an offer like that.


	4. Changing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The classical metamorphosis chapter. I simply had to. <3

The floorboards were creaking dangerously beneath the strangely silent steps of the man walking in front of Harry. Up close Mr. Wanlockhead was a lot taller and broader than he had looked behind the counter and Harry once again half cursed half thanked his own lack in height. After all, if he weren’t this short he probably wouldn’t be mistaken for a girl, which very likely would mean no job and no nearly perfect disguise.

“Here,” Wanlockhead spoke up, snapping Harry’s attention back to the man and the door he was pointing at. They had walked up a set of narrow stairs that went up right behind the counter, ending in an equally narrow hallway with four worn looking doors. “Make use of what’s there and get some sleep. There,” he pointed to one of the other doors. “You’ll need it tonight when the bar’s packed.”

With that Wanlockhead turned on his heel and walked back down. Harry blinked after him, releasing a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. He stood still for a moment, listening in vain for the retreating steps of his new… boss? …but it was still only the floorboards he heard, not the actual footfalls.

The first indicated door revealed a tiny bathroom, for some reason no enlarging spells having been used here. A shower bath, sink, toilet, and a very small dresser were cramped inside, making Harry wonder how someone of Mr. Wanlockhead’s size would be able to manoeuvre the room. Shrugging he locked the door, but hesitated again before drawing his wand and daring himself to erect a ward. It would be alright, his boss was right, this was Knockturn Alley, everyone and their Kneazle did magic here at all times. Still, after casting Harry couldn’t help but tense, waiting for a few moments in absolute silence for the Ministry response to his use of underage magic. He had no idea how long he stood there, but at one point Harry decided that it didn’t matter. The spell was cast, if he was going to be expelled it would happen now anyway, no use in waiting around and spoiling the opportunity to clean off all the sweat that had accumulated over the day.

He showered carefully, meticulously cleaning himself, not knowing when he would get the next chance to do so. He really should have planned ahead more before just up and leaving Privet Drive. The shower was somewhat filthy and the water didn’t really heat up, but that was fine with Harry. He had never been allowed hot showers at the Dursley’s and the day was hot enough on its own. He decided to use the single bar of soap he found in the stall, using it equally on his body and hair, before rinsing. There were no towels he could see apart from the one next to the sink, so he used a drying charm on himself. Next were his teeth and once again Harry made liberal use of his magic. It was kinda freeing. Only then did he dare tackle the real issue: His disguise.

He would have to dress the part if he wanted to be seen as a girl and at this point he was not keen on Mr. Wanlockhead’s reaction should he realise he had allowed some strange bloke into his flat. Somehow Harry didn’t think the man would take the revelation as lightly as he did thinking Harry a girl. He twirled his wand, pondering how to go about his disguise. He probably should go for the extreme, cliché female, girly, just to avoid any suspicion. Thinking about the girls he knew, Harry wrinkled his nose as Lavender Brown popped up in his mind in relation to the term ‘girly’. Okay, maybe not that much to the extreme. And no giggling whatsoever. Still, orienting his disguise to someone he knew was his best bet not to muck this up completely.

First things first, a cliché girl had to have long hair, right? That he could do, only made easier with the length already there.

He ended up with tresses just brushing at his shoulder blades, ends curling, making him frown at the strange tickling sensation. But with more length Harry encountered another obstacle: He needed to pay his hair a lot more attention than he was used to. Transfiguring some wayward cloth into a brush and working his way through the tangled mass, Harry fast realised he would not be walking around with his hair free any time soon. The knots were painful! After that he needed all his concentration to manage something resembling a plait, leaving out generous bangs to hide his famous scar. He was proud to say it at least felt quite impressive to the touch. But brushing his hands along his new plait also made him aware of his face. He probably should shave, right? Just to be on the safe side.

He very rarely grew anything resembling facial hair, meaning he had never actually needed to use a shaving charm. But he had listened to Ron and his other dorm mates using it nearly every day for the last few years, he could do it. Raising his wand and pointing it carefully at his chin, Harry hesitated. He had seen the result of a wrongly cast shaving charm once and the image of Seamus’ half shaven head and missing eyebrows (though those were singed most days anyway) was coming back to him now full force. Right. Maybe testing it on his legs first was the better course of action. He should probably get rid of body hair anyway if he wanted to avoid as many questions as possible. Girly girls wore skirts, didn’t they?

The shaving charm worked for Harry on his second try, the first actually leaving a shallow cut at his shin. When it worked correctly, though, it felt like a cool silken cloth brushing along his leg, leaving slightly rosy skin but no hairs in its way. Handy. The spell needed a bit more focus on his face and Harry half expected to end up without any kind of facial hair at all, eyebrows and lashes included. In the end it went well enough, leaving only a little itching feeling behind. He remembered the other boys using some potion or cream to soothe the skin afterwards, but could only shrug. He could live with a little bit of itchy skin.

Glancing down at the puddle he had left his clothes in, Harry groaned slightly. He was not looking forward to this part. He decided to stall a bit and go about cleaning what he had first before attempting to feminize the only clothes he owned at the moment. Staring a little confusedly at the clean pants he found in his jeans pocket, but shrugging it off as situational madness, he put them on before going about getting rid of the sweaty stench. He aimed the only cleaning spell he knew at his jeans and t-shirt, hoping he wouldn’t blow anything up. Normally he didn’t have to use spells like this, the house-elves taking care of any laundry at Hogwarts and at the Dursley’s cleaning spells certainly wouldn’t have been his first choice if he had been allowed to cast anything.

Maybe he really should transfigure his jeans into a skirt? He was aiming for cliché female, after all. The girlier the better considering what he was hiding. At least he was passable at Transfiguration, and even though Hermione would have done it better, the resulting jeans skirt would do for now. Thinking practical, Harry accepted that his shirt would need to hide the lack of chest. So maybe something flowy and fluttery? And definitely nothing low-cut. He laughed as he caught up to his own thoughts, Harry Potter thinking about the best ways to show off non-existent boobs four weeks after defeating Voldemort.

Merlin, he had defeated Voldemort. It was over, finally over. The thought cut off his laughter, leaving him partly awed, partly bitter. If it wasn’t telling that he still found himself surprised and shocked at the realisation, he didn’t know what was.

Forcing himself to focus back on his work with a shaky breath, Harry decided that the freshening charm his Quidditch team had taught him early on would also work on clothing. He had more practise than with the cleaning spell, that much was for sure, and wouldn’t risk blowing anything up. Or setting it on fire, he had seen that once happening to one of Ron’s jumpers… He would need to do laundry soon anyway, spells could only do so much. Harry aimed at his socks. He might have gotten ahead of himself, though, when his mind drifted to Luna and her preference for colourful stockings, because somehow his spell not only freshened up the slightly thread-bare socks once belonging to Uncle Vernon, but also managed to transfigure and colour them. He ended up with approximately thigh high socks ringed in all the colours of the rainbow. Luna would have loved them, but Harry eyed them with something akin to dread. His magic had some curious humour.

It did take him a few minutes to drum up the courage to actually dress in his disguise. Pulling on the skirt felt strange, leaving him feeling naked even with the… stockings. He tried arranging the ruffles of his transfigured blouse in a way that would make it impossible to notice the distinct lack of curves, taking a lot more care and time than he normally would for dressing, before finally braving a look into the mirror. He could see the fuzzy image of a blob that very well could have been a girl, skirt swaying at every little movement and a long plait falling over a shoulder. Stepping closer he examined his reflection as best he could with his blurry vision.

Looking back at Harry was still very clearly himself – if one had an intimate knowledge of what Harry looked like without his glasses, which, admittedly, pretty much no one but himself had. The reason for that was not only his miserable eyesight, but more than anything the fact that the glasses seemed to belong to the image of ‘Harry Potter’ as much as the lightning bolt scar and untameable bird’s nest of black hair. People were fickle and shallow like that. Take away the glasses, change the hair style a little and no one recognised their supposed hero anymore. He snorted in disgust, wondering just for a second if his friends would recognise him now. Not that he wanted them to see him like this, he could just imagine the hackling he would have to endure if certain people became aware of his chosen method of disguise.

Staring at the image he made, Harry found himself for once grateful for the shallowness of people. Without the glasses his likeness to James Potter was definitely diminished, his mother’s looks shining through stronger. It went a long way in smoothing the distinctly male edge of his jaw, drawing the attention up to his eyes that really did look a lot like his mother’s and not just in colour. The blouse was okay, he thought. He was skinny enough it probably wouldn’t be seen as too weird that he was somewhat …lacking. All in all Harry thought he looked okay, he couldn’t spot anything too obviously male.

_“Maybe want to do something about that Adam’s apple, darling.”_

It felt like he jumped a mile high, wand in hand, back to the wall and eyes frantically searching the room.

_“Over here, poppet. I would stand if I could, but alas the boundaries of enchantments are not in my favour.”_

Harry stared hard at where the voice was coming from, squinting and trying to make out anything – until his mind finally clicked on. The mirror was talking. Bloody hell. With a weary sigh Harry collected his spare bits of clothing, which really were only the used pants and the jumper. He would need to either travel back to Privet Drive soon to get more, or… or maybe Mr. Wanlockhead would pay him early. He didn’t really want to ask, though. After one last look around the grimy bathroom, Harry left, the mirror’s voice drifting after him.

_“Come visit soon, darling! We can just… hang around.”_

 

In contrast to the bathroom his assigned sleeping space was surprisingly clean. It wouldn’t win any home design awards and was in size even smaller than his room at the Dursley’s, but Harry wasn’t about to whine. It was tidy and he got a twin bed and a chair, the small window was obscured by heavy dark green curtains and the floor was only marginally creaking.

Leaving his invisibility cloak in his jumper’s pocket, aiming another freshening charm at the used pants and hanging both over the lone chair, Harry considered putting up a ward once again. But then, this was Mr. Wanlockhead’s home and… in contrast to putting a ward up when he was using the shower, it felt somewhat rude to do so now. As if he were expecting anything untoward from his new boss. Shaking his head, Harry turned careful eyes to the bedding. It looked just as clean as the rest of the room, and really, Harry had slept in much worse places. Even if it was coloured in faded Slytherin green stripes.

Sitting down on the edge (and decidedly not noticing how his skirt was riding up and exposing a sliver of skin between the rainbow stockings and the hem) he blinked at the very comfortable mattress. That was unexpected. He let himself fall back with a sigh, plait flopping beside him heavily. But before he could ponder the situation he had gotten himself into much, Harry was fast asleep.

 

He was woken up by harsh pounding on his door, sending him scrambling for his wand, heart lodged in his throat painfully. In the next second Mr. Wanlockhead stood in the doorframe, scowling down at him, before his eyebrows shot up his forehead at the sight of Harry’s wand.

“I see you’ve learned your lesson,” he commented, before taking his merry time scrutinizing Harry’s changed appearance. He could feel the man’s stare wander from his rainbow-clad legs, over his swaying jeans skirt and along the flowy (and now slightly creased) blouse, before finally zeroing in on Harry’s face. “In more than one way,” he added, sounding as if he hadn’t actually expected Harry able to look anything resembling decent.

Harry was tempted to emulate one of Ron’s phrases, commenting on the constant tone of surprise, but refrained. Instead he found himself hugging his waist unsurely, the unfamiliar way of dress leaving him feeling vulnerable. His new boss looked huge and looming and Harry was suddenly aware of the fact he had no idea what to actually expect of this whole situation.

“So,” he spoke up after an awkward pause, trying to ignore the insistent feeling of nakedness, “Does that mean I… erm… get to stay?”

Glancing up, he found Wanlockhead still eying him, an unreadable look in his dark eyes. That is, until he suddenly seemed to catch himself and turned around abruptly. He was halfway to the stairs before Harry realised he had left the room.

“S-sir?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the tall man huffed. “You’ve got the job.” He turned just before the first step down, looking over his shoulder at Harry once more. “And don’t mention that age issue out in the parlour.”

Harry thought he saw a blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think magical/talking mirrors are enchanted with a certain personality or is it something developing over time influenced by the magic surrounding the mirror?


	5. Trying

A few minutes later found Harry unsurely making his way down the narrow stairs. Emerging behind the counter down in the parlour he tried taking as much of a look around as his eyesight would allow. He was pretty sure no patrons were currently at the pub and listening for any sounds only led him towards a door in the far back of the enlarged room. Peering inside, Harry could make out the figure of his new boss shifting grates in a smallish space.

“Get yourself one of the aprons from behind the counter and sweep the floor out there,” was grumbled at him. “Wipe down the tables while you’re at it.”

Harry nodded, though it didn’t seem like the blurry figure of Mr. Wanlockhead was even looking in his direction. Feeling his way back towards the counter and running into a few chairs on the way, Harry found some aprons hung up on a hook in the wall. They were all too long for him and the belt/ribbon went a few times around his waist before he could fasten it closed. The broom he found in a cabinet right next to the aprons and Harry set to work immediately. Cleaning was something he had learned from an early age, it was second nature by now. Which also meant the work left his mind free to wander and he couldn’t help but listen constantly for his boss back in the storage room.

What had he gotten himself into? Here he was in a pub in Knockturn Alley cleaning floors. Oh it wasn’t the work that made him uneasy and perhaps not even the place per se. Harry certainly never had felt entitled to anything special and being a …waitress didn’t give him any issues (Apart from the whole wearing skirts thing, that is). He was used to earning his keep. It was perhaps the whole situation of him having run away from his relatives against the headmaster’s express instructions that had him looking over his shoulder every few seconds. Dumbledore had not wanted Harry to be exposed to all the hype going on right now, not to mention the apparent danger he supposedly was still in. Yes, Harry could give him that much. There were bound to be Death Eaters out for his blood still, and maybe they were even more dangerous to him now than they had been before their master’s demise. After all, Voldemort had always insisted on being the one to take Harry out. Now it would be ‘kill first, ask questions never’. He shuddered.

But Harry was done with the war, was done with the fighting. He had completed his task and he was not going to let others dictate his life for him any longer. There was no bloody need for him to be kept at the Dursley’s! Even if there were Death Eaters planning their revenge, Grimmauld Place had always been safe enough for the Order of the Phoenix, so why not for him? The place was unplottable, for Merlin’s sake! Without Voldemort’s raw power there was simply no way anyone unwanted would be able to make their way in – if they were even aware of its location.

“Well, that’s certainly an unexpected sight,” the now almost familiar voice of Wanlockhead drawled from behind Harry, making him spin around. He cocked his head in question, not sure what the man was talking about. “You still scared of gettin’ in trouble with the Ministry, lass? You didn’t strike me as one of those pampered brats unable to wipe their arses by themselves.”

Harry frowned. He had no idea what his boss was going on about and was about to ask when Wanlockhead made a very distinct motion with his hand. A second later the broom yanked itself from Harry’s grasp and started swiftly sweeping the floorboards. By itself. Blinking, Harry stared at it for a second before looking sheepishly over at his boss.

“I didn’t think of that,” he admitted softly, tugging at the hem of his skirt (his skirt!) uncomfortably. Why did he charm the thing so damn short? Wanlockhead snorted.

“Yeah figured,” he muttered before throwing something at Harry. It was only due to his Seeker reflexes that he caught the cloth before it could slap him in the face. “It’s self-cleanin’, but you need to actually do the wipin’,” his boss said before turning and retreating behind the counter. There he started to fiddle with bottles from what Harry could make out.

“Right.”

He was pretty sure the man meant the tables and not Harry’s arse. This time. Turning, Harry carefully made his way over to the next best table and set to work wiping down the surface. It was remarkable. Any and all stains he encountered simply soaked themselves up into the cloth and Harry ended up staring more than once at the self-cleaning charm, watching in fascination when whatever he had mopped up simply vanished from sight the moment it soaked itself into the cloth. What he would have given for something like that growing up! It didn’t take him long to finish up, though he did run headlong into a wooden pillar twice.

 

It was loud. The cacophony of voices overlapping each other, humming like a hive of bees, was what first truly registered to Harry. After helping Wanlockhead prepare the bar for the evening costumers, he had been sent back up to be ‘out of sight’. Harry had bristled at that, wondering why the hell the man even bothered to employ him if he didn’t want Harry to be seen. But then he had looked at his boss, truly looked, unconsciously reaching out with his magic, and suddenly Harry had understood.

Ethelred Fergus Wanlockhead was trying to protect him. To this man Harry was an underage and destitute girl without guardian in an environment that could turn deadly at the slightest wrong move. Well, Harry thought, that wasn’t far off at the moment. Wanlockhead wanted to keep attention off of Harry by only letting him come down when the bar was already packed, full of people that would distract from the strange new waitress. It would certainly work in Harry’s favour.

So there he was now, carefully and somewhat intimidated by the sheer mass of patrons present, making his way down the creaky stairs. He hesitated behind the counter for a moment, trying to take in as much as possible, but he really could only make out moving people blobs. He watched the hulking figure of his boss move with his back to Harry, pouring glasses, mixing drinks with both hands at the same time while holding a conversation with three men sitting directly at the counter. He even looked up at one point to shout something across the busy room, but Harry couldn’t make out what had caught Wanlockhead’s attention.

“I’ve shrunken your apron, lass,” the deep voice of his boss suddenly addressed him and Harry saw him throwing a short glance over his shoulder.

He nodded and made his way over to the hook in the wall. As Harry put the now fitting cloth on, he noticed the attention that had switched to him. Those patrons sitting directly at the counter were suddenly all staring at him, eyes following his every move. It was a very uncomfortable and intense situation, leaving Harry tense and on guard. His wand was hidden up his sleeve as he didn’t deem the skirt’s pockets as safe anymore now that no overlarge jumper was hiding them from sight. Glancing at the men from the corner of his eye, he noticed one rather scraggly looking bloke’s gaze lingering on Harry’s stocking-clad legs. Okay, that was unexpected. And unfamiliar. He was used to looks and stares, but… not _this_ kind of stare. Straightening his spine, Harry glared at the bearded bloke, wishing he could hex him for the rudeness, but received only a jovial smile in return.

“I see you’ve improved the atmosphere of this old shed, Fergus,” the man commented, still smiling at Harry in a friendly way.

“Well, Ruaidh, with old reprobates like you around…,” Wanlockhead trailed off with a smirk, eliciting a round of laughter from the three men he had been talking to before.

“Oi!” The scraggly beard finally drew his attention away from Harry and onto the barman, “I resent such impertinence,” he sniffed in mock-offence, obviously trying (and failing) to pull off what Harry termed Malfoy-behaviour. Then his eyes wandered back to Harry who was still lingering unsurely, hands curled into his apron. “Evenin’, lass,” he nodded, his red and grey streaked beard bobbing, “Ruaidhrí Mac Graith, at your service,” he introduced himself, tipping an invisible hat at Harry. **(*)**

“Har- …Harley,” he answered with a nod of his own, glancing over at his boss.

Wanlockhead was drawing most of the men sitting at the counter back into conversation, but motioned for Harry to get to work. Right, if only he knew what he was supposed to do.

“Never seen you ‘round before,” the man named Mac Graith, who was apparently being called Ruaidh or something by those around, addressed Harry again. “Would’ve remembered such delicate beauty,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

Harry turned bright red. He definitely had never been called a ‘delicate beauty’ before and part of him wanted to grouch and snap at the geezer that he was a guy, a man, really, not some pretty maiden. But he couldn’t do that. If he was to keep this disguise, was to have the freedom anonymity offered, he needed to play along. It was only for the summer anyway. He was about to stammer out something, not quite sure what exactly, when some rowdy laughter went up again, drawing more attention to the counter and subsequently Harry.

“Big words, Ruaidh,” someone commented, slapping the scraggly beard on the back, “Didn’t know you had it in you, mate. Though, reminds me, yesterday there was…”

And just like that the general attention was more focused on Mac Graith and his new companion than Harry, just enough for his boss to push a tray into his hands and send him out to ask the patrons sitting near the door if they wanted anything to drink. Not that Harry could make them out with his eyes, but he could certainly hear them. They were easily the loudest group around and that was considering the whole pub was so packed with people Harry had to worm his way through the crowd. He squeezed passed groups of boisterously talking people and ducked under flailing arms, going mostly unnoticed as everyone seemed to be immersed into something be it talking, drinking, cards or something else entirely that Harry wasn’t about to question further. Sometimes though he felt eyes on him. It made him antsy and his hand wandered to his wand more than once, just in case.

“Um…”

The group was made up of four men and one woman, at least that was what Harry thought he made out with his blurry sight. Sitting there around one of the tables near the doors, they were rowdy, laughing and joking. They also didn’t feel completely human. Harry had no idea how he got that idea since he couldn’t see them too clearly, but something about the group just felt like… ‘more’.

“What’s that, luv?” The woman, perched on one of the men’s lap, asked him and the others all turned to look at Harry. Biting his lip, he shuffled in place for a second, before straightening his shoulders.

“Can I get you something? Mr. Wanlockhead sent me.”

“Mr. Wanlockhead, she says,” one of the men snorted, apparently very amused. “He told you to call him that?” Harry blinked at him in confusion.

“It’s his name, isn’t it?” He asked back, not sure where this was going.

His answer had the others laughing again and Harry scowled at them, tempted to just turn around and leave. But this was basically his very first task in his new job. He did not want to fail.

“Yeah, just,” one said, finally taking pity on Harry, “No one calls him that. He’s Fergus to everyone around here.”

Harry cocked his head for a moment, thinking back to the conversations he had overheard at the counter. It made sense, he supposed, to call the owner of a popular pub by a more familiar name. Like Madam Rosmerta of the Three Broomsticks, or even Tom of the Leaky... actually, what _was_ Tom’s last name? He shrugged, giving a sheepish smile.

“He’s my boss,” he said, pulling his tray in front of him pointedly. “So…?”

He looked at them leadingly, widening his eyes, brows rising in an exaggerated expression and this time the laughter felt less on his expense.

“Mh,” one tall and lanky one rumbled in a surprising baritone, “Never thought I’d see the day this trashy place gets some class.” He looked at Harry with glowing amber eyes that tickled at something in Harry’s memory before doing some strange movement with his head. It took Harry a moment to realise the man was scenting the air. “And in such interesting form too,” he added, smirking knowingly.

Werewolf. The realisation wasn’t what had Harry taking a cautious step back, though. It was the knowledge that this man was not only more than a plain wizard, but that he also very much knew there was more to Harry than the front of the gullible waitress he showcased. Could he smell Harry wasn’t actually a girl? He gulped, fervently hoping his little stint of freedom wasn’t about to be cut short then and there.

“Don’t unsettle the sweet one, Romu,” the woman chided, before giving Harry a friendly smile. “A round of firewhiskey, luv.” He didn’t linger.

It hadn’t registered before as he was not only half-blind, but also very much concentrated on his task (of surviving the madness). Now, though, that he was actually looking for it, he could see it and even fancied he could somewhat feel it: The patrons of Bandy-Legs were a wild mixture of mundane wizards and creatures. And Harry realised he really shouldn’t be surprised by that revelation. He remembered Remus and the fall-out in third year when he had been outed as a werewolf, a dark creature, and he remembered the more informative of his Defence Against The Dark Arts lessons. Was it really that surprising there were so many supposedly dark creatures here, at a place considered so dark it even showed in its name? Knockturn Alley was probably somewhat of a safe haven for those wizarding society rejected. How fitting that Harry had found shelter here.

Still, it was fascinating. He could make out a group that clearly were Vampires, he would recognise the Snape-like looks of sallow skin and black eyes everywhere. Or maybe he should say Snape had vampiric looks, he supposed. Either way, the group of gaunt looking… people blobs… reminded him even from the distance of Sanguini, the Vampire he had met at Slughorn’s ridiculous Slug Club Party last year. Actually… squinting at one person blob in particular, tall and somewhat fancier dressed than the others, Harry suddenly gasped and turned abruptly away. If that really was Sanguini, there was a good possibility he would recognise Harry.

In his haste to get out of sight, he nearly tumbled into a group of Hags who for some reason seemed delighted to have him near. They were grabbing for his arms and legs, tugging him closer, cooing and giggling with their strangely high voices. It freaked Harry out and he struggled to get away from them. He was in luck, or so he thought, as a passing wizard took pity on him and pulled him away with a somewhat crude tugging spell. It landed Harry right in the man’s arms and way too close to his leering face, but this time he was fast enough to get his hand on his wand. A well-placed stinging hex later and Harry hurried back to the counter to take a breather in the space behind.

“More than you can handle?” Wanlockhead muttered to him from the corner of his mouth, never faltering in handing out drinks and cashing in his money.

Harry wasn’t sure if his tone of voice was truly as mocking as the man wanted it to be, he rather thought he heard some well-concealed concern. Or maybe he was just grasping at passing Pixies.

“I’m fine,” he automatically answered, forcing himself to take a calming breath and to ignore the tremors in his hands. He smoothed his apron out and relayed the orders from the group of Werewolves by the door.

“Mh,” his boss hummed partly in affirmation, partly doubt and Harry watched as five shot glasses floated down from a shelf, positioning themselves neatly in a row as a bottle of firewhiskey started filling them to the brim. “Well, then, bring those to the costumers.”

This time Harry was sure there was a challenge in Wanlockhead’s tone of voice and he glared defiantly back. As if he would cave just because some prat got a bit grabby! Taking up the tray again, careful not to spill anything, Harry squinted over the room full of people, trying to make out the best route. Right. He could do this.

 

As the night wore on, Harry learned little tricks to make his life easier. Like attaching glasses to his tray with sticking charms and only levitating drinks in extenuating circumstances like the one his boss had pushed him into right at the beginning. That order of firewhiskey had gone flying twice, once when Harry tried to circumvent the reaching hands of yet another (or maybe the same) wizard and the second time when he tried to be clever about it and levitated his tray… but forgot the sticking charms to the glasses. The pub had been completely packed, people standing shoulder to shoulder and there was no way Harry would have been able to make his way through. Normally his small size would have allowed him to squeeze between, but well… he generally learned from his mistakes. Luckily for Harry not one of the costumers had more than grunted at the sudden alcoholic shower.

It went from there. Harry was unsure of himself and shy but trying his best nonetheless. His poor eyesight was causing quite a few problems, he had screwed up more than once, running headlong into tables and stools he hadn’t seen and sending the contents of his tray flying. Still, Mr. Wanlockhead hadn’t commented and as long as Harry cleaned up after himself, he didn’t seem to particularly care. It took a few hours on that first night before Harry started to realise that if he didn’t try to rely solely on his half-blind eyes, but instead trusted his magic to lead, manoeuvring the whole of the bar was a lot easier. Sadly one doesn’t just realise something like that and implements it the next moment, it takes time and work to learn to use a skill like that. Harry had been nervous and wary of all the people, making his spells more wonky than general. But there was progress. He learned that it became actually easier the more patrons there were, their presences seemingly ‘pinging’ on Harry’s magical radar much clearer than if he had tried to see them with his poor eyes. It let him hope that with a bit more training he would be able to do his job even with his eyes closed.

Still, when the pub started to clear out in the early hours of the morning, Harry was completely shattered. His feet were killing him, his arms and back aching, and he was aware of muscles he hadn’t even known existed. And that was after having trained for Quidditch with Oliver Wood! Seriously, if all waiting jobs were like this, the personnel didn’t receive nearly enough recognition/acknowledgment/appreciation. All of the above, really.

Rightening chairs as Wanlockhead hauled some stragglers out the doors, Harry looked around the room. The patrons had been riotous and he was sure if it wasn’t for magic and its ability to repair stuff, this bar would have been bankrupt long ago trying to replace all the broken glasses and furniture. As it was, Harry himself had sent enough glasses and tumblers flying that he would have probably been paying with his monthly salary had this been a muggle pub. With a sigh he straightened the last chair, re-attaching a lost leg as he did so. He was exhausted and as suddenly the hearty smell of stew reached his nose, he realised how famished he was as well. Used to little food or not, a growing boy working hard for hours doesn’t survive on a few pieces of fruit. Looking over to the counter, he found his boss Fergus Wanlockhead setting down a bowl of what had to be the best smelling stew Harry had ever come across. Black eyes caught his.

“This is a bar not an Inn,” Wanlockhead told him in his abrupt manner, setting down a glass of water and a steaming mug of butterbeer as well. But contrary to that statement the next words out of his mouth were: “Now sit and eat. You’ll be going for groceries in a few hours.” **(*)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) Ruaidhrí:** Means ‘red king’ from Irish _ruaidh_ = red (red-haired, brown), combined with _rí_ = king …though I’m definitely no expert. This was the name of the last high king of Ireland, reigning in the 12th century. 
> 
> **(*) Even though Harry calls Bandy-Legs mostly a pub,** it really is a bar. Meaning food isn’t exactly part of the menu, maybe there are some appetizers, but that’s it. You could probably call it a bar with pub feeling…?


	6. Exploring

Harry woke up around ten in the morning, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his form. The transfiguration had lost its shape sometime during the night, the ruffled blouse now gone, not that he cared. He would have preferred sleeping in nothing but his pants, but was too afraid Wanlockhead might come in to wake him again. Harry wasn’t about to risk being caught without at least a shirt on.

Blinking tiredly at the ceiling, trying to ignore the heat drifting in through the open window, he cast a tempus charm. It was Sunday, 14th July, and he was not at Privet Drive. A grin made its way onto Harry’s face. He had really done it, it hadn’t been a dream! Shifting, he grimaced at the sticky feeling of his clothes. Right. He needed a shower and he should probably ask his boss where he could do his laundry. Or would he be expected to find a launderette? Did they even have those in the Wizarding World? There was still some small change in his moleskin pouch, but he really hoped he wouldn’t need to spend it on cleaning his clothes. He would though, if he had to, cleaning and freshening spells could only do so much.

Sitting up and stretching, he winced at his sore muscles. His back was alright now, but his feet felt somewhat swollen. Nothing he wasn’t used to. At least he had been too exhausted for nightmares when he had finally been allowed to go to bed. Harry stood and stripped the bedding down, getting busy right away. Gathering up his second pair of pants, the jeans skirt from last night that had re-grown a leg overnight and his jumper, he poked his head out of his room. The hall was empty, but he could hear some clattering of what sounded like pots and pans from the room across from his. Probably the kitchen.

He set a ward again when he closed the bathroom door, wrinkling his nose at the state the place was in. It was quite obvious Wanlockhead had already been through here, there was soapy water gathering on the tiled floor near the shower and shavings lying in the sink. The toilet was positively reeking when Harry went near it.

 _“He’s been alone ever since he moved in here ten years ago,”_ commented the mirror, making Harry jump only marginally this time around. _“Ah but you know, darling, my lonesome self has been here waaay longer,”_ it lamented.

He made a noncommittal sound in answer. Maybe he was just too used to the spotless state Hogwarts’ house-elves left any and all bathrooms in (with the exception of Myrtle’s, that is) or even Aunt Petunia’s bleach-heavy cleaning habits, but Harry frankly thought this place disgusting.

Stepping into the shower and making once again use of the lonely bar of soap, Harry resolved to spend the little money he had on some proper shampoo or the wizarding equivalent of it. His now long hair was a tangled mess and that was even with him keeping it plaited while he slept. A drying charm later he strengthened the transfiguration on his jeans so the skirt was once again complete and tried his luck in changing his jumper into yet another blouse. No way was he wearing the stockings in this heat even if he knew he would feel utterly naked without them. His hair was getting on his nerves and the mirror commenting on his skill in styling didn’t help matters. With a defeated groan Harry gave up to get some actual order into the mass of wet curls and simply put it all up in a messy bun. He had seen Hermione do it often enough. Honestly, he wanted his short hair back! Weren’t there spells to deal with stuff like this?

Harry banished the spilled water and the shavings in the sink, sent a _Scourgify_ at the shower and another at the toilet before he decided that magic alone wasn’t going to do the trick here. Maybe he should ask his boss for cleaning supplies as well. Shaking his head at his train of thought, he went looking for the man in question.

* * *

It was about fifteen minutes later that Harry closed the door to Bandy-Legs, suppressing a groan at the onslaught of heat. The parlour had actually been pleasantly cool in contrast to the upper floor, though the kitchen had a cooling cupboard that kept the whole room at an acceptable temperature in the summer. When Harry had entered the kitchen timidly, half expecting to be shooed back to his room, he had found Mr. Wanlockhead frying some eggs, a glass of heavenly cool water already awaiting Harry at a small table. Apparently though, the eggs had been the last available food in the whole house, so his boss had sent Harry for groceries right after breakfast. Harry was still a bit in awe about the fact a near-stranger trusted him enough to simply give him money and point him in the right direction. What if Harry took the opportunity and ran? Not that he would, but he definitely had not expected any measure of trust this early on. He hadn’t even given the man his last name (or his real first name for that matter), for Merlin’s sake!

Walking down Knockturn Alley, for once very glad for the tall shadows of the ominous buildings, Harry soon found himself much deeper in the dark district than he had ever been. Granted, Harry had never really been here before apart from that little stint summer before second year. Back then it had all seemed a lot scarier. There weren’t many people out and about yet, most likely because of the rising midday sun, but the few he spotted looked a lot less curious than those he had seen yesterday. Or maybe last night’s experiences had desensitized him when it came to strange appearances. He had nearly reached the end of the shadowed street, past a lot even shadier looking small alleyways, and was closing in on what Wanlockhead had called Carkitt Market, when he noticed one shop in particular.

Wedged between two stores (an undertaker’s and something unidentifiable) was a small painted door, a sign labelling it as _Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos_. Had he really just found a wizarding tattoo parlour? Biting his lip, Harry fought down the giddiness. He could get a tattoo before school started up again! If that didn’t scream ultimate teenage rebellion, he didn’t know what did. Though, he supposed he would have to wait until he actually received some pay and he had no idea how much that would even be. That is, _would_ he even be paid? Or was he getting lodgings in exchange for helping out in the pub? No, Harry decided with a slightly forlorn sigh, there were other more important things than a tattoo, no matter how cool that would have been. Still, squinting around and spotting _The White Wyvern_ (an actual pub, not a bar like Bandy-Legs), he committed the location to memory. One day he would come back and get that tattoo. **(*)**

Carkitt Market was nothing like Knockturn Alley, or even Diagon Alley. Arches made of sheer glass were framing the whole place, a huge fountain giving off nice cool air, and he could make out the tall marble building of Gringott’s in the distance. Well, at least he thought it was Gringott’s. It gave him an idea of his location, making him realise the whole magical district was connected in one way or another. Which, really, only made sense. The fancy looking street that led to the bank was signposted as Horizont Alley, Harry noted with a snort. If the names were any indication, he now had a vague concept of the wizarding district’s build-up, diagonally, horizontally... seriously? Anyway, Carkitt Market, a kind of plaza he supposed, was a bit more populated, the people blobs looking less shifty than those in Knockturn and yet different to those in Diagon. Though, he couldn’t really place the difference.

Harry took in the variety of storefronts and inviting looking cafés, trying to catch sight of the grocer Wanlockhead had told him about. There were actually different stores selling nonprocessed and processed foods, one clearly dedicated to fresh fruit and vegetables, one small stall with eggs, milk, butter and cheeses, another for grains and all kinds of foods made from those… it went from there. Harry wasn’t fazed, this wasn’t all that different from the small grocer near Privet Drive he used to be sent to by Aunt Petunia. He scowled, remembering her harping about every last penny of change when he came back from his errands. He wasn’t sure how Wanlockhead would handle it, he hadn’t exactly given Harry clear direction on what to buy, only said to get what Harry liked and to keep in mind that they would need to eat one warm meal a day. The man wasn’t much for cooking apparently, couldn’t be bothered to do it more than once a day, if at all. It was fine with Harry and if his boss allowed, he would have no problem taking over the cooking as thanks for the man’s generosity.

Walking past the stalls and stores, Harry watched in fascination as house-elves popped in now and then, obviously sent by their owners. The small creatures moved through the hustle and bustle with a lot more practice than Harry, not to mention they probably didn’t have a sight issue. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to focus in on his magic to help him find what all he was looking for. It wasn’t as easy out in the open as it was at Bandy-Legs, it seemed.

 

The heat was starting to make him woozy by the time he decided he had enough groceries to last them a while. It was interesting, and confusing, to note that food seemed more expensive in the Wizarding World than he remembered it being in the Muggle World. Then again, everything looked exceptionally fresh, the fruits, vegetables and even eggs were of sizes that put the best ‘organic’ grown stuff from the grocer in Privet Drive to shame. He didn’t think anything at the Woking Shopping Centre had looked so delicious either. Still, he would have thought that with magic on their side food would be cheaper, at least the nonprocessed stuff. Shrugging, he levitated the many paper bags with their inlaid cooling charms in front of him, very very glad he wouldn’t have to actually carry them.

Blobs of familiar red.

Harry only saw them bounce through the crowd from the corner of his eye, but his reaction was instantaneous. He would recognise that precise shade of red anywhere. Unsure which of the Weasley’s had found their way to Carkitt Market, but not willing to risk being seen by them either way, he launched himself and his purchases sideways between two stalls and hopefully out of sight. The movement made not only his bags lurch but also his skirt fly up. With a squeak (manly noise of surprise) he pushed the hem back down, praying no one had seen it happening. Damn it, he had nearly forgotten about wearing a skirt! How utterly surreal was that?

Breathing deeply, rightening his clothes as well as his purchases, Harry glanced back in the direction he thought he had seen Weasley red. He couldn’t make out much, with some luck they had just walked by. He frowned slightly at his own thoughts and reactions. He loved that family, Ron was his best mate, yet he felt the need to hide from them. Then again, if there ever was a family that could be considered completely devoted to Dumbledore, it would have been the Weasley’s. And Harry was not willing to risk being sent back to Little Whinging. He didn’t think they would do it out of spite, no, knowing Mrs. Weasley she would just believe to do the right thing. Even Ron, knowing as much as he did about Harry’s home life – no, _former_ home life – would cave and agree with the headmaster, because surely Dumbledore would know best. With some luck Harry would be allowed to stay at the Burrow, but considering he had gone against the headmaster’s instructions and was enjoying his new found freedom very much, he wasn’t about to chance it.

Still, avoiding the people he cared for hurt something in his chest.

That reminded him, he needed to take a look at the Prophet to know what was going on outside, if they had already noticed him missing, and probably to get general information on the last Death Eaters on the run. Breathing more freely the moment he stepped back into Knockturn Alley (and how curious was _that_?), Harry levitated his bags back in the direction he had come from. The familiar yet unloved feeling of eyes on him made him shiver despite the hot summer sun. It was different from the kind of blatant stares he was used to getting as the Boy-Who-Lived or maybe that should be the Boy-Who-Conquered, at least that seemed to be his newest moniker. No comment there, they could at least have called him a man instead of a boy, really.

The eyes he felt following him were different though, and it didn’t take him long to retrace them back to some dodgy person blob lounging in a dark entrance way. Ugh. He felt like crossing the street, but straightened his spine and marched on. It was another sort of staring, the likes he had endured last night in the pub. Someone actually catcalled after him, the unexpected action making him stumble over his own feet in surprise. He definitely wasn’t used to _this_ kind of attention! Yep, Harry thought, definitely more like the stares from yesterday.

* * *

The rest of his day, or at least his afternoon, went by in an oddly domestic way. Harry did his laundry after bringing back the groceries and handing everything, including his change down to the last knut, to Fergus Wanlockhead. His boss hadn’t commented on the money, but had dug with interest into the bags. Harry wasn’t sure if the foods he had chosen met approval, but at least he wasn’t reprimanded.

Asking about laundry and maybe cleaning supplies was another matter altogether. Wanlockhead looked at Harry as if he had grown a second head for a moment, but then just shrugged and told him to use the sink in the bathroom if he needed to, or wait for the weekly visit of a house-elf that apparently worked at something similar to a launderette. Harry wasn’t sure what the correct term was, but the house-elf came around some of the houses in Knockturn once a week, collecting laundry, and returning it cleaned and ironed in the evening. He hadn’t known there were services like that and he wondered who earned the money for this particular one. After all, apart from Dobby he was sure most free elves did not receive any kind of pay if they managed to get a job. Was there even such a thing as free elves looking for jobs? So, did that mean the owner of the elf rented them out to collect and do other peoples’ laundry and cashed in the money for it? Hermione would have a field day with this!

Either way, it left Harry with his pile of bedding and soiled clothing standing in the tiny bathroom. He had found a bottle of a magical cleaner variant beneath the sink, but it seemed the stuff was only meant for surfaces not washing any kind of fabric. Right, so, he could use the sink… or not. He had too many things that desperately needed a wash, he would use the shower bath. But only after he cleaned it up a bit.

Harry soon found himself scrubbing the small tub, amazed once again by magic. It didn’t take long at all, the grime just detaching itself the moment it came into contact with the surface cleaner. He just had to rinse everything off and that was it. He took a bit more care with the bedding and his clothes, taking his time to actually get the water to heat up and using a heating charm when it wouldn’t really work. The bedding was first, he just soaked and rinsed it through, it wasn’t like he had really dirtied the stuff. The thought had him blushing for all of three seconds before the mirror behind him made some random comment or another that brought his mind right back to the work at hand.

It was a bit depressing how few clothes he actually owned at the moment. Placing yet another ward on the door, Harry stripped to get everything cleaned up at once. Well, apart from his invisibility cloak that is. But honestly, it could have been worse. He had a decent enough shirt that didn’t resist to being transfigured time and again, a more or less fitting pair of jeans, socks (or maybe he should call that stockings since his magic seemed to have decided to make this specific transfiguration permanent), a warm jumper and luckily two pairs of pants. Though, why he had had the forethought of pocketing a fresh pair of pants, but hadn’t even thought about where he would spend the night, was anyone’s guess. A few well-placed drying charms later, added in a mending charm for a fraying hem on his jumper, Harry was done with laundry and his back really wanted a rest.

Back in his room he stopped in his tracks.

There was a black woollen shirt lying carefully folded on his stripped down bed. Placing everything on his lonely chair, he went to investigate. Harry goggled a bit at the sheer size of the long-sleeved shirt, it clearly belonged (had belonged?) to someone much bigger and taller than him. He blushed once again when he realised Wanlockhead must have left it there.

* * *

That evening Harry transfigured his new shirt just enough to fit him around the shoulders and make it look more like a dress, before donning his apron and getting to work. It was a Sunday night so he didn’t exactly expect as many patrons as there had been the night before, but then again, this was the magical world. What did he know about how things worked here anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a bit of a time jump between this chapter and the next. If you wish to see a specific scene at Bandy-Legs, now would be the time to tell me :) 
> 
>  **(*) Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos** as well as The White Wyvern are places mentioned in canon or at least in different wikias.


	7. Establishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a little wink at **Aivy**.

“Harley!” His boss’ voice boomed across the pub. “Get your bunny-butt over here!”

He didn’t even jump or startle at being referred to in such a way anymore, but simply and swiftly made his way through the crowd to the counter of Bandy-Legs.

Over the course of the last two weeks (give or take a few days), he and Wanlockhead had developed a routine that worked for them both. Harry had the mornings and afternoons free, his work only starting shortly before the pub would open for the evening until they closed in the small hours of the morning. He would sweep the floor (or rather enchanting the broom to do it for him) and wipe down the tables while Wanlockhead stocked up the liquor. As soon as the first patrons would appear, it would be Harry’s task to serve them if they didn’t sit directly at the counter, which meant for the first hour or two he had never much to do. His boss liked to use that time to show Harry how to mix different drinks with the patrons at the counter chipping in sometimes. It was actually a lot of fun even if Harry was not allowed to taste what he was mixing, which meant he had to do it all by intuition since his eyes weren’t much of a help either.

By now his apron wasn’t just spelled short enough for him, but actually cut and trimmed to fit him perfectly. Or to just cover the skirt of the day, really. Wearing skirts was still freaking him out sometimes, but Harry secretly enjoyed creating different outfits to suit his needs each day. Transfiguration had never been so much fun either, not that he would ever tell anybody.

Once a week Harry would go for groceries and on some days his boss liked to spend the night at one of the tables, playing card games Harry had never heard of before (though he suspected something like the wizarding equivalent to Poker), leaving most of the work to Harry. The first time he did so, Harry had nearly had a meltdown trying to serve everyone at once, his magic going haywire to work around his poor eyesight. To say he lived through a lot of hackling was putting it mildly, but he soon learned not to take the comments to heart.

In fact, most of the patrons were actually very nice to him, apparently enjoying talking to him, just telling Harry about their days or commenting about what was going on in the world. Incidentally that also meant there was no need for him to receive the newspaper any longer (the Prophet owl didn’t seem to find him anymore anyway) since he was sure to hear about everything going on in the Wizarding World simply through listening to the patrons of the pub. Not to mention that he got a more in-depth view on things as well, considering the kind of people frequenting a place like Bandy-Legs weren’t exactly known for keeping to the Ministry approved view of the Prophet. He had not learned so much about wizarding culture in all the five years of his schooling!

Still, the work was hard, much more demanding than Harry had ever thought a job as a waiter, or waitress apparently, to be. And that was not just because of his eyes. Labour wasn’t so much the problem for him, but the bigger issue had been adjusting to being more active when it was dark out as that was the prime time for the pub. In fact, most days Bandy-Legs was closed during the daylight hours and the actual work for him wouldn’t start until after sundown. Even then it was generally doing some last minute cleaning and airing before the masses would descent. Harry was used to hard work, but still his feet ached for the first few nights and his arms felt like lead as if he had been carrying whole barrels instead of pints. Not to mention being constantly around so many people was exhausting in its own way.

So yes, work at the pub was a completely new experience for Harry – demanding but also oh so very exciting. He was getting better at trusting his magic to lead him by the day and after the first few nights felt secure enough in his disguise to relax somewhat. He even had a kind of rhythm: Sleeping for around six hours hopefully undisturbed by nightmares, shower and take the time to create a new girly outfit for the day, breakfast with Mr. Wanlockhead if he was up and then Harry would go through his satchel, or rather his books.

First it had just started out with his summer assignments, but now that he didn’t have to hide what he was doing, Harry soon got annoyed with the lack of different reference books. Only relying on the course books to write an essay just didn’t cut it and he felt slightly ashamed thinking about the lacklustre work he had done the years prior (if he actually got to do his homework during the summer). He had shaken that thought away rather viciously. It wasn’t really his fault, was it? With the Dursleys breathing down his neck and sometimes going as far as keeping his school stuff from him, there was no way he would be able to do well on those assignments. And again the lack of reference books. How did Hermione do it during the summer? He was pretty sure they weren’t allowed to take books from the Hogwarts library with them when they left the school and …oh right. Hermione could simply go to Diagon Alley and get the books she needed. She didn’t even live that far away. Harry had never been able to do that. Okay, so, maybe he hadn’t exactly tried to be all that studious either, but the fact remained that he hadn’t had a chance in the first place.

After doing drafts for all his assignments and deciding that he would need too much reference material to make all that work actually worthwhile, Harry took the time to do something he had never really cared about before: He sorted the books he had brought with him into Hogwarts years and started re-reading. First he did it just to see if there were mentions of books he could use as reference for his assignments, but it didn’t take him long to realise how much he had missed during his previous schooling: Little everyday charms, but also very interesting spells the further he advanced in years. Frankly, it was a bit daunting. Harry had never really taken the time to read the complete books, apart from Defence obviously, only what he would need to complete his homework.

Shortly thereafter he started compiling notes. He had to borrow parchment and quill from Wanlockhead and the loose papers were kinda annoying, but he couldn’t help it! There was so much he had missed! He started sorting his notes after classes, Transfigurations, Charms, etc. but ended up rewriting them and compiling them into piles of ‘unimportant’, ‘vaguely interesting’, ‘could strike his fancy at some point’ and ‘Godric’s sock draw how could he miss THAT?!’. Even if all the reading left his eyes feeling sore from all the squinting.

Around lunch time he would check on his boss. If they felt like it, Harry would cook something nice and filling for them, if not, he would still put something together but leave it under a preservation charm for later that night. Then it was readying the parlour for the costumers and learning more about liquors and anything bar-related, really. He learned a lot about accounting that way too. It wasn’t long before Wanlockhead let him handle the money on his own to Harry’s complete astonishment. He had never been trusted with money before – barring his trust fund, obviously.

Living with and working for Fergus Wanlockhead turned out to be the best summer Harry could remember ever having and that included those he mostly spent at the Weasley’s. There was just a huge difference to be so completely free in his decisions, no one telling him what he should or should not do and no one restricting his movements either, though he hadn’t yet truly taken advantage of the latter. It was also interesting to see a new side of the Wizarding World, especially as that new side wasn’t compromised by peoples’ reactions and changes in behaviour the moment they recognised him.

Anonymity was bliss to Harry.

Most patrons seemed delighted to find a ‘female presence’ at the bar. Harry had been mortified the first few times the scraggly beard from his first night, Ruaidhrí Mac Graith, started flirting with him, but soon learned that it was apparently all in good fun. Not that it made Harry any less embarrassed. Not to mention that he felt mildly uncomfortable with the thought that he was basically deceiving them all, even if their flirting was in general harmless. Sometimes they would even behave courteous in a way Harry was sure they would never do if they knew he was actually a boy. Well, then again, he had lost count of how often he had heard comments on how he wasn’t as bandy-legged as the pub’s name suggested, complete with lecherous head craning to get a look up his skirt. He could honestly say he had never been this fast with stinging hexes before.

Sometimes, though, there were the really nasty ones and Harry had had his very first run-in with one of those patrons on his fourth night…

It had been late already, or rather the very early hours of the morning, and Bandy-Legs had been once more completely packed. Harry knew it wouldn’t be long now before his boss would start kicking people out, his tether only ever was so long, really, but for some reason it didn’t seem to have any impact on the pub’s popularity. Harry had been tired that day, well, he had been tired the whole week, still trying to get used to his changed circumstances and the new work. Everything was still exciting and he wasn’t yet completely self-assured when it came to his disguise as a girl. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he ever would be. Making his way through the crowd, by now much better at letting his magic lead the way, Harry managed successfully to serve a full tray of drinks at a corner table, eliciting happy shouts and thanks from the group. He was caught up in the good mood of the night, everything was looking up, he was really getting the hang of things-

The hand closed around his wrist from somewhere in the crowd, impossible for Harry to see it coming. He only realised what was going on when he found himself yanked side-ways, landing on someone’s lap. The strong stench of unwashed skin and some kind of liquor invaded his senses a second before rough hands were groping at his legs, wandering up from his stocking-clad knees under his skirt. He didn’t wait to see where they would be going from there.

“Hands off,” he snarled lowly, wand tip pressed underneath the man’s chin. “Now.”

The hands, one only inches away from his pants’ front, the other already firmly groping at his arse, stilled, and Harry got his first good look at his assailant. He wasn’t anyone Harry recognised, neither from the previous nights nor from any time before. For all intents and purposes he had never seen this guy before yet that bastard didn’t look the least bit ashamed for manhandling and groping Harry in such an intimate way. Harry pressed his wand just that tiny little bit deeper into the bastard’s sweaty skin.

“Don’t be like that, pretty,” the man leered, his breath smelling foul with some strong stuff Harry couldn’t identify. “It comes with the job, doesn’t it? It’s basically your duty to keep the guests entertained.” A thumb started stroking the inside of Harry’s thigh, making him jump slightly. “See? You like that, pretty thing. Come now, spread them legs a little for-”

And that was the moment in which Harry momentarily forgot that he was a wizard and very much capable of defensive magic. Leaning back, staring into slightly bleary eyes, Harry brought his head down against the man’s nose in one swift motion. There was a shout and a satisfying crunching sound before Harry pushed back abruptly, making the man topple over in his chair. He landed heavily in a heap on the floor.

“Do. Not. Touch. Me.”

Harry hissed at the heap, nearly slipping into Parseltongue. His sight was even more blurry now than before and his head was pounding horribly, but his eyes were glowing eerily in his anger. Unbeknownst to him it made everyone around take a collective step back. The man was holding his nose, cursing, trying and failing to get back up. Harry had him at wandpoint a second later, the adrenaline still rushing through him. He wasn’t sure what he was about to do, he was freaked out and yet too wired to really process what had just happened. He wanted to curse that bastard to Hogwarts and back, he should… A hand clamping down on the bastard’s neck and hauling him up roughly interrupted Harry’s glaring, and he watched passively as his boss dragged the man towards the door. By now he was loudly protesting, throwing vicious slurs back at Harry in the process, but Fergus Wanlockhead wasn’t fazed. He quite literally threw the former patron of his pub out the door and Harry felt the wards shift, banning a certain presence from the grounds.

Only then did Harry allow his wandarm to falter slightly.

His breath hitched. This was not supposed to happen. Bandy-Legs was his safe haven, inside the pub Harry felt in control. He knew what was expected of him, knew what to do and how to get around. He had all the power, the only person he ever needed to answer to his boss. But this… This was different. A gentle hand on his shoulder had him jumping, eyes wide in fright. Whirling around, ready to defend himself (though, this time with magic), he came face to face with Ruaidhrí. It took Harry a moment to recognise the man with the scraggly beard and to realise he was still standing in the parlour of Bandy-Legs… with basically the whole pub watching him.

Harry felt his breathing speeding up as the situation caught up with him. Someone had molested him, had touched him in a way no one else had ever before, and had gotten dangerously close to noticing the truth about ‘Harley’. He was starting to tremble, his hand cramped around his wand. This was all kinds of different to any of his adventures, not even facing Voldemort had scared him like this. Then he had known what to do, even what to expect, but this… this was not a situation Harry was at all familiar with.

“You did well, mo nighean mhaiseach,” Ruaidhrí said soothingly. “You showed him.” **(*)**

Harry let himself be led back behind the counter, the pub still ominously silent as eyes followed them. Not that Harry really noticed, he was too occupied trying to breathe evenly.

“I… I…,” he stuttered shakily, not sure what exactly it was he wanted to say.

“Alright, everyone, get your gobs closed or get outta here,” Wanlockhead’s voice suddenly resonated through the room and just like that the tension seemed to clear up, people started talking amongst themselves again and stopped staring at Harry.

A glass was pressed into his hand and he found himself sitting in a chair that had not been behind the counter before. Ruaidhrí was hovering in front of him, looking concerned and unsure, but it was the broad figure of his boss that had Harry snapping back to attention.

“Ruaidh is right, bunny,” he declared gruffly, blocking Harry mostly from view of the rest of the pub, “That dickhead had it comin’ and you made it clear to all here you’re not some pushover. They’ll think twice before tryin’ somethin’ again.”

Harry managed a shaky smile, mentally pulling himself together. He honestly just wanted a shower now, the memory of those hands on him making his skin itch. It was all psychological, he knew, but the knowledge didn’t change his desire to wash the whole encounter off of himself.

“You up for another hour or you wanna call it a night?” Wanlockhead questioned after a moment, glaring a costumer into submission who had been getting impatient with an order.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied instantly, shaking himself a little and focusing on his boss. “It’s okay, I can go another hour.” He was once again given the by now somewhat familiar scrutiny of too dark eyes, before Wanlockhead shrugged and sent him off to the tables in the far back.

 

That night Harry had also made the first of his new friends and now he could look back on more than a whole week without any negative instances. He hadn’t even crashed a glass for three nights in a row now!

Shaking the memories off, he once again made his way into the darkest corner of the whole pub, just like that night after the incident, and towards the lone person lounging against the wall there. Treasach was as silent as always, but Harry could feel the man’s magic wrap around him in gentle greeting. **(*)** The first time that had happened Harry hadn’t known what it meant, didn’t understand the significance of such an action. Now it made him smile, his own magic reaching out in return. With Treasach words were very rarely needed as his species was generally not of the talkative sort… at least not the kind of talk that happened verbally. But since only few wizards and creatures were capable of communicating through their magic, it left people like Treasach quite lonely. Not that Harry had known all this when he first was sent to approach the guest hiding out in the darkest corner of the pub. The man sure made an intimidating picture with his height and, well… his scales.

He was a Donas. The Donas, Harry knew from one of his more in-depth Defence books, were a creature species originally native to Ireland and none had supposedly been seen in Britain ever since the first war against Voldemort. The rising prejudice had driven the few remaining off so much that nowadays no one could even estimate how many of them were left. They had always been a secluded race, but after they left the UK, British wizardkind had completely lost track of them. Which, Harry supposed, had been the intention behind the whole leaving thing. The only other thing he could remember reading about the Donas was that they were related to the Drackens, though leaning more towards serpents than dragons in their genetic makeup and most of them also lacking the wings. **(*)**

“Hey,” Harry smiled up at the man he by now thought of as a friend, “The usual?”

Treasach was, like most males around, taller than Harry and knowing what he did, the blue-green scale patterns along his cheekbones and down his neck, no longer unsettled Harry. To say he was very glad Treasach had no resemblance to Voldemort’s resurrected form was putting it lightly. In fact, he had been tempted to ask why it was that the serpent-like genes only showed in the odd scale patterns and the slitted eyes, but didn’t want to be rude. He wouldn’t ask a wizard why his nose was huge (cough, Snape, cough) so why should it be okay to ask about any of Treasach’s characteristics?

“You’re nervous again,” the man stated, looking at Harry evenly.

“What? No, no it’s… it’s alright, I-,” Harry babbled a moment before shutting his mouth as he caught sight of the raised eyebrows. With a huff, he asked: “How’d you know?”

“The way you look over your shoulder and touch your arm with your right hand,” Treasach explained in that near silent voice of his, “I remember you doing that on those first few nights and then again the whole night after you established yourself a reputation.”  
Harry glared a bit at the peculiar description of his unsavoury encounter, but conceded the point. He had been particularly on edge the 24 hours after the assault, keeping his wand even closer than before. This time, though, it had nothing to do with icky pub patrons.

“It’s fine, really,” he insisted, feeling guilty to dismiss his friend’s concern like that.

But it wasn’t like Harry could tell him what was making him nervous once again. There still was nothing in the Prophet about him missing, so they were keeping it quiet. That is, if they knew. The Dursleys would have noticed by now, at the very least Petunia would have checked on him to make sure he (or his body) wasn’t stinking up her house because of his lack of shower use. And weren’t his thoughts cheery today? Anyway, if the Weasleys, Dumbledore, the Order and the whole crew knew Harry Potter was missing, they had kept mum about it. The newspapers were still speculating about his summer adventures, apparently now he was visiting some sandy beach and flirting with bikini beauties. So, everything fine on that front. But it also meant they were more than likely looking for him.

Treasach’s magic nudging his gently had Harry looking up again.

“You are not on your own anymore,” the man said quite apropos of nothing, but it left Harry feeling warm inside. “And yes to the usual,” he added just as the door banged open and in came a certain group of werewolves.

“Harleybunny!” One crowed, waving enthusiastically over the other patrons’ heads. “Firewhiskey over here, pretty please?”

Some suggestive whistling went up throughout the crowd at his words, making Treasach hiss. Harry just chuckled. Things were really looking up for him, he thought. These people, even if they couldn’t know who he truly was, liked him well enough without any knowledge of fame or money or whatever. Not that he thought his other friends liked him only for that, but… It soothed the hollowness the Horcrux had left behind. The only thing really getting to him was the fact he hadn’t been able to visit Sirius in the hospital yet. But he was planning on changing that soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) “mo nighean mhaiseach”** : Gaelic for “my pretty/beautiful girl”  
>  **(*) Treasach:** Irish Gaelic, means something along the lines of warlike or fighter  
>  **(*) The Donas** (donas: Gaelic for demon or devil) are a magical race I randomly created for this story. As of yet I haven’t much specified about them, but maybe I’m going to use the idea for my next creature!Harry story. Btw, not all snake eyes are slitted, but logically the Donas would have differences in appearances just like us boring humans.  
>  Related to Drackens as in the species StarLight_Massacre describes in the story ‘The Rise of the Drackens’. I’m not gonna use their idea, just mentioning it in passing.


	8. Aching

 

> _Mate,_
> 
> _I know, you didn’t want me to send Hedwig back to you, but if I hadn’t, one of the adults would have used her to find you. And if I know my best mate at all, that’s exactly what you’re trying to avoid._
> 
> _But bloody hell, mate, everyone’s falling over themselves trying to find you. Mum gave Dumbledore a chewing out like you wouldn’t believe when he summoned the Order and told us you were missing. Yeah, I’m an official member now, apparently. Better later than never, right? Hermione’s staying over again and let me tell you, she’s not impressed with you at the moment. I think she takes it personally that you didn’t tell her of your vanishing act beforehand, but you didn’t actually plan at all, did you?  
>  Anyway, it’s the mother of all pranks according to the twins, but the adults all think you’ve been hero-napped or something. I know, I shouldn’t ask you where you are and it’s probably safer if you don’t answer me (everyone’s looking for Hedwig too!), but I hope you’re alright._
> 
> _Wherever you’re at, you might want to contact Remus. He’s going round the bend, I tell you. Last night was the full moon and I got a glimpse of him this morning. He looks like crap warmed over and trampled on a few times by Buckbeak._ **(*)**
> 
> _Sorry I didn’t send you anything for your birthday, didn’t want to chance it._
> 
> _See you soon!_
> 
> _Ron_
> 
> _PS: Did your OWL results find you? Mum’s acting all proud over mine, but she would be proud of anything after what the twins pulled last year._

 

Harry looked up from the parchment to where Hedwig was preening her feathers on his windowsill. She had woken him up early this morning, maybe three or four hours after Bandy-Legs had closed, meaning she must have been travelling at night.

“Are you sure no one followed you?” His question was answered with a very indignant screech. “Okay, just making sure. I really missed you,” Harry sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. A second later a white ball of fluff landed on his shoulder and he could feel his beloved owl’s beak running through his tangled mess of hair. “I know, it looks bad,” he chuckled with a wince as she tugged at a knot.

He would need to venture into the Muggle World soon unless someone enlightened him as to where wizards and witches bought their care products. He hadn’t found any at Carkitt Market so he was still stuck with using the soap. His hair was not happy. His wardrobe as well needed help, he couldn’t go on transfiguring stuff forever, not to mention the fabric of his lonely shirt was starting to give in. If it was too worn out, the transfiguration would hold less and less. He was already pushing his luck, risking a transfiguration failure during work hours.

Looking back down at the letter, Harry was glad he had underestimated his best mate. He really shouldn’t be so surprised, he thought, after fourth year Ron had grown up a lot. He still lacked the understanding when it came to Harry’s confusion with wizarding traditions and simply stuff Ron had grown up with. He couldn’t imagine that someone would not know these things. But he seemed to have lost most of his jealousy, which may or may not be because he had realised that Harry’s home situation wasn’t what everyone imagined their ‘hero’ to live like. Harry wasn’t sure and he wasn’t about to ask. It wasn’t anything he wanted to think about and to be quite honest, he hadn’t been sure that Ron wouldn’t revert back to fourth year behaviour with the whole ‘Saviour’ stuff these days either.

Speaking of wizarding traditions: Today was 1st August, a Thursday, and because there would be a little festival down at Carkitt Market tonight, the bar was closed for the day. Apparently it was Lughnasadh, a pagan holiday Harry had never heard of before even though the muggles had apparently adopted parts of it. He hadn’t even known the Wizarding World had its own holidays apart from those he was used to from school and those had been the same as in the Muggle World. As far as he knew anyway. Thinking about it, Harry had become curious after realising he had been sent for groceries on a Sunday more than once. It made him realise that wizards at large weren’t Christians, or belonged to any other muggle religion that called for rest on Sundays, the weekend, or any specific day in general. **(*)** At the time he hadn’t really thought about it, but wizarding shops just didn’t seem to care what day it was. Some would close up on Sundays, some would not, and Harry got the impression that it depended more on the costumers than any perceived notions of religion. Apart from Muggleborns, he didn’t think it would make sense for witches and wizards to be Christian or belong to any similar kind of religion that spoke out against ‘witchcraft’ anyway.

Confused as all hell he had gone and asked Treasach about it. If there was a wizarding religion with own holidays, he wondered why they did not celebrate them at Hogwarts? Their class schedules were certainly orientated on the muggle system of week days and weekends, but then again, that could have a completely different reasoning. They did not celebrate pagan holidays either, so whether those beliefs were derived from the wizarding equivalent or not obviously didn’t make a difference.

Sure enough his new friend had sat him down and told him a few things about the wizarding belief system without much fuss. They did not call it a religion, but it really was similar to the pagan beliefs Harry had vaguely heard of in the Muggle World. The Dursleys had been all for the presents and food part of Christmas and thought themselves deserving of each and every holiday they got, but there had never been much of a religious background of any kind in that household. Which worked in Harry’s favour, really, because he didn’t have to deal with the dichotomy that could develop if one grew up believing in certain things and then BAM there was the Wizarding World and magic. Yeah, he could see where that could clash.

Treasach gave him an overview of the eight main holidays wizards celebrated traditionally, promising to go into more detail each time one of those approached. Lughnasadh, the one the festival today was in honour of, was apparently a celebration of accomplishment. One was to honour one’s own accomplishments during the circle of the eight holidays so far, which to Harry translated into reflecting upon the year up to that point. It also involved thankfulness and the sacrifice of some stuff. That part had freaked him out a moment before Treasach told him in quite certain terms to get his pixies together, that just because a celebration included a sacrifice of sorts it did not necessarily mean anything nefarious. Or Dark for that matter. In general wizarding holidays seemed to focus on connecting to one’s magic and Harry kind of liked the idea; all thanks went to Mother Magic, though there were other gods and goddesses that some wizards liked to include in their sacrifices. **(*)**

With a sigh Harry heaved himself out of bed, still bone tired, but too wired now to go back to sleep. Knowing that everyone was looking for him left Harry antsy. He had turned 16 in silence as always, but it was the first year without any owls bearing presents reaching him at midnight since he started at Hogwarts. He hadn’t expected it, not after the owls of the Daily Prophet stopped reaching him even though he had not cancelled his subscription. The first time that happened he had wondered if they were back to defaming him and were afraid of sending ‘the Saviour’ a paper that was dragging his name through the mud. But listening to the patrons at the bar had soon cleared those worries up, they were still speculating about his summer adventures and wondering about his apparently great magical strength. (And wasn’t it plain weird to have people talk about you while you were refilling the glasses of their late night pick-me-up?) So the wards at Bandy-Legs either included mail-wards or his assuming of the alias ‘Harley’ meant he couldn’t be found under the name of ‘Harry Potter’ any longer. The latter certainly would explain why no one had come knocking, if Ron was right and the Order was looking for him. There had been no rumours of the Wizarding World’s hero missing either.

Eying his crinkled shirt in distaste, Harry turned his attention to his sneakers instead. Apart from the stuff Wanlockhead had gifted him and of course his invisibility cloak, they were the least worn out part of his wardrobe at the moment. And that was saying a lot seeing as they had once belonged to Dudley. He had recently progressed to transfiguring shoes, so today he was going to try and gift himself some sandals. The heat definitely called for it.

Just yesterday his boss had donated an old shirt again, patterned in some tartan this time around. Conjuring a mirror similar to the one in the bathroom (just without the ominous talking feature), Harry pulled the shirt over his pants, wondering what he was going to make out of it. On the one hand he really needed another top, but his jeans weren’t taking all that well to transfiguration either anymore. Then there was the fact that he could already imagine wearing a skirt with the nice tartan pattern… yeah, he really did just think that. Shaking his head at himself, Harry couldn’t help the small smile as he transfigured the shirt into the skirt he had imagined. It was much lighter than the one he tended to make from his jeans, very welcome in the current weather. That he combined with the black woollen shirt he had only shrunk to fit him when he found it on his bed that first morning, but frowned at the image he made. It was too dark looking for the cheery sunshine outside, even if the heat was feeling slightly oppressing. Rolling up the sleeves to his elbows, Harry ran his wand along his sides from his ribcage down to the hem, imagining lace instead of the heavy wool. He wasn’t sure if it would work considering he couldn’t base it much on any specific spell he knew, but then transfiguration often depended more on will and intent than spellwork.

Looking up at the mirror again, the colour theme was still wrong, but it did look a lot airier. Lighter. He could even feel a slight breeze caress along the skin of his waist where the shirt was made up of lace now. Cocking his head, Harry decided he liked the look of it. Tantalizing, flirty even, but not revealing enough that he would consider it tacky. And more importantly: The lace drew attention away from where a girl would have certain curves Harry lacked. He was just wondering if he should try and change the colour of the black shirt when his stomach growled demandingly. Well, it was still early, but now that he didn’t have to deny himself food, Harry liked to simply indulge himself whenever he felt like it.

The flat was silent, not surprising too, his boss had had one of his ‘poker’ nights yesterday. He tended to drink a lot during those nights and was likely to sleep in until midday minimum. Thinking about Wanlockhead and yesterday’s shenanigans had Harry grin. The man was a funny drunk. Where some of the costumers of the bar tended to become more vulgar and sometimes even aggressive when drunk, Fergus Wanlockhead was all about talking. It was a massive contrast to his normal behaviour and it wasn’t even general talking either. No, the man started talking about the weirdest things when drunk, reminding Harry more often than not of Luna, which was hilarious in itself considering the drastic difference in those two’s appearances. Where Luna was all small, delicate, and pale like the moon she was named after, Wanlockhead was huge, broad, and had a head full of dark brown curls.

Standing in the plain kitchen, scrambling eggs for an omelette with one hand, Harry rooted through the cooling cupboard for the bacon. He wanted to dice it and add in some tomatoes and onion, maybe even fresh chives if they still had any. The thought made his stomach growl some more in anticipation. He would make the same for his boss plus some toast and extra bacon and leave it under a stasis spell. Being able to use magic so casually definitely had its perks.

Leaning on the windowsill as he ate his breakfast, Harry watched what he could make out of the still deserted streets outside. Knockturn Alley felt so familiar now, he couldn’t fathom why he had been so scared back when he had been twelve. Then again, he hadn’t been to any of the shops around here again, and definitely not to _Borgin and Burkes_. Maybe the folk coming to Bandy-Legs was just different? With a shrug Harry’s thoughts drifted to his plans for the day. He wanted to go see the festival later tonight, but until then he had a lot of time to himself. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, he had delayed visiting Sirius long enough. So, since he couldn’t risk being seen as Harry Potter anywhere, he would put special care into his disguise for the day, his hair would need some more attention anyway. With his magic now constantly helping compensate for his lacking eyesight, he hoped he would be able to sneak into St. Mungo’s as Harley and avoid running into anyone that might recognise him.

He sighed as his thoughts automatically wandered from Sirius to Remus. He felt guilty for having lost track of the full moon, but the fact of the matter was that he had deliberately kept himself busy. There were a lot of things he did not feel ready to think about. But Remus certainly wasn’t one of them and with a little bit of math Harry concluded the next full moon would be on 28th August. Well, he couldn’t go see Remus as Harley, but he could at least make sure the man got to see his mate. **(*)**

* * *

Stumble. Ash. Cough. Exiting the floo with as much grace as he could muster, Harry only very narrowly avoided falling flat on his face.

The entrance hall of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was busy, but not nearly as crowded as Harry for some reason had imagined it to be. Maybe it was just the memory of coming here last Christmas after the gruesome attack on Mr. Weasley that Harry had had a vision of. Back then the reception area had been loud and filled with victims of the barmiest stuff… Through all the shock and haze back then he still clearly remembered someone with an elephant’s trunk sticking out of their chest. The healers in their lime-green robes, though, were the same as were their clipboards that called another uncomfortable memory to the forefront of his mind. Umbridge had liked to carry a similar clipboard in the beginning when she was still ‘assessing’ the Hogwarts professors’ abilities last year.

Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped in line to be seen by the decidedly not very welcoming Welcome Witch. The air smelled similar to that in the hospital wing at school, all professional disinfectant and something else that just seemed to scream ‘impersonal’, but at the same time there were the scents coming from the waiting wizards and witches, the distinct smells of people sitting in a waiting room during the height of summer. The sudden feeling of eyes on him had Harry looking up, meeting the pale blue eyes of the blond receptionist.

“What?” She snapped the moment she had his attention. Harry was startled for a second, not expecting outright hostility like that.

“Er,” he stammered, receiving mockingly raised eyebrows, “I’m looking for Sirius Black,” he finally managed to get out only to realise the very same moment how utterly dumb it was to ask after an escaped convict, especially if no one was officially supposed to know of Sirius’ stay here. The gasp his words elicited did not bode well.

“W-why would you ask for… f-for _him_?” The witch stuttered, her complexion gone pale and her hostility replaced by plain fear. It was ridiculous. “We do NOT house escaped convicts!” She screeched when Harry did not manage an immediate answer. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m going to call the aurors right now!” She threatened, drawing her wand and pointing it tremulously at Harry while backing away.

Harry blinked before turning on his heel and hurrying towards where he knew the exit into the Muggle World to be. He could not afford any kind of attention and the way people around him suddenly backed away like they had overheard the Welcome Witch’s words was not looking good for him. A second later he was out on the street the old store that housed the wizarding hospital was located on, but didn’t stop his pace until he was around the next corner. Pulling his invisibility cloak from a hidden pocket to his newly transfigured skirt, Harry leaned against the brick wall for a moment. That had gone well. So much for looking as harmless and innocent as possible to get through the reception, he had even allowed his hair free today to model his looks more on Luna. His odd friend always had that air of innocence that had people underestimating her. Didn’t look like that worked for Harry all that great. Sure, he could have cancelled some of the transfigurations, but… Okay, so maybe he was simply being difficult. Or maybe he was just afraid. He didn’t want to risk being sent back to the Dursley’s the moment he made an appearance as Harry Potter anywhere.

Well, at least the people in charge seemed to stick to his demands (as Harry Potter), keeping the public unaware and away from Sirius. Right, so, he would try that again but this time not waste time on doing it the legal way. Hidden under his trusted invisibility cloak, Harry made his way back into the hospital, looking around the reception area until he found a board depicting the respective dedication of the different floors.

He hadn’t seen the room that was arranged to house the comatose Sirius, but back then he had gotten an actual vow on the healer’s magic that they really would use Harry’s money to care for his godfather in a secluded place hidden from public. He couldn’t be sure about any loopholes in that oath, but it had been the best he was able to get with his limited knowledge and funds. Looking over the directions board, careful not to be run over by one of the now rather harried looking healers in lime-green robes, Harry determined that he should probably go looking for Sirius on the fourth floor. He shuddered slightly. Of course it had to be the very place Neville’s parents were permanent residents at, or well, at least the same floor. He really hoped they had not put Sirius into the Janus Thickey Ward, the Closed Ward. Though, considering the Veil had been involved, his godfather very well could have been placed on the ground floor that, next to reception, also addressed artefact accidents.

“Point me Sirius Black,” Harry whispered, watching his wand spin for a few moments on his palm before the tip jumped up, pointing at the ceiling at an angle of about 45 degrees. “Right, that solves that,” he muttered to himself, deftly stepping out of the way of two arriving aurors.

Time for him to get a move on, obviously.

Sneaking up the stairs towards the fourth floor, Harry hoped his use of magic would be hidden here as much as it was in Knockturn, but considering the sheer amount of magic he could literally feel all around him, he didn’t worry too much. Finally, a few more Point-Me spells later, a sign came into view, proclaiming the floor to be meant for treatment of spell damage. Apparently they also addressed ‘unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly-applied charms, etc.’ here. Sounded promising to Harry.

The doors were warded, but since it was a visible ward he didn’t think it would be anything malicious. Still, he had basically no knowledge of this branch of magic and he had been to the wizarding hospital exactly once before. The realisation made him frown. Wasn’t that putting him at an incredible disadvantage, not knowing anything about wards? Well, apart from basic privacy warding he had learned copying Hermione. He briefly wondered if it was an elective at Hogwarts and made a mental note to look into it later. It couldn’t be right that one was to completely rely on warding services, not everyone would have the money to afford those.

Making sure his cloak was securely in place, Harry braved the warded doors. At least this was not where Neville’s parents lived, a fact that calmed something inside him. He couldn’t imagine Sirius, his vibrant godfather, in a place like that. The wards washed over him harmlessly, leaving behind a somewhat clean feeling, prompting him to make sure his cloak was still working. A medi-witch at a small circular counter looked up, blinking a few times confusedly at the doors, but seemed to decide that whatever had alerted her had just been a fluctuation of sorts. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, trying to keep his sandals from making sound on the floor as he crept passed the counter and up to the first door. Little handwritten signs on each door informed about the inhabitant(s) and their affliction(s), so he hoped it would only be a matter of time until he found Sirius. Then again, it would be a bit careless to label a room with the name of a person one wasn’t officially to know the whereabouts of.

In the end it was of course the very last room in the very back of the whole ward. Great, he probably should have expected as much. There was no sign, but Harry could feel the magic surrounding the closed door, his own reaching out on instinct. His eyes went wide when he realised he was able to determine the kind of wards through this method, knowing well enough that just a month prior he would not have been able to do as such.

These wards were designed to keep all but one other person out and the inhabitant in. He ground his teeth at that, but had to concede the point. The healer he had bullied, or maybe bribed, into helping had only Harry’s word that Sirius really was wrongly accused. The man had to keep the people in this hospital safe, just in case. Frowning, Harry let his magic nudge and poke at the wards some more, recognising one that felt like it was meant to make the door uninteresting, as in one wouldn’t look twice at it unless one was specifically looking for it like Harry had done. Well, he had no idea how warding was supposed to work, but to him it felt like if he just asked the ward nicely enough, he would be able to key himself in. **(*)**

Weird shit that.

 

The room was very still. In fact, apart from Sirius’ breaths there was nothing to be heard in the small space. Harry had snuck in after ‘asking’ the ward to let him in and closed the door as silently as possible behind him. There was no window here, something that had him frowning again, but then this room didn’t seem to be one of the rooms normally in use for patients. Maybe it used to be a storage space? Whatever, now there was a single bed and a table with some papers and a few potion racks that Harry could only make out because there was a small witch light hovering just above the desktop.

Sirius was deathly pale in the beam of Harry’s silent _Lumos_ , unmoving until a breath would have his chest rise a tiny bit before it would deflate again. He was thin too, as if he had been losing most of the weight he had managed to put on after his escape to Grimmauld Place. Harry’s heart ached. Unconsciously he matched his breathing to that of his comatose godfather, forcing himself to stay calm. Still, fine tremors made the light of his wand skitter slightly as he slowly stepped closer. The room was small and he feared that when Sirius awoke he would feel closed in and panic. The man certainly had no fond memories of being locked in and with no wand that was exactly what he would be. Without access to his magic he wouldn’t be able to open the door and even if he somehow managed to get out, he would be confronted with a hospital full of people that still believed him to be a mass murderer. Just look at that witch’s reaction down at the reception.

“Hey,” Harry whispered as he reached his godfather’s bedside. His voice came out scratchy and he had to swallow a few times before it would form more words. “I- …I’m sorry,” he said, this time a little bit louder, “I’m so sorry, Sirius,” he said again, eyes prickling with unshed tears.

This was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so incredibly dumb, if he had just listened to Hermione when she questioned the validity of the vision… If, always what if. Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently touched the very tips of his fingers to the back of Sirius’ hand, noting the magical drip that steadily fed a liquid into his godfather’s bloodstream. Harry wanted to say more, tell the man about everything that had been going on, about his new life at Bandy-Legs and the friends he had managed to make. But a thought crossed his mind that had him looking the room over again: If the reaction to his questioning about Sirius was anything to go by, the personnel was not aware of the man’s presence. Which was exactly how it should be. But that also meant no one would be able to visit unless they somehow managed to sneak in like he had. Did that mean Remus had not been able to even visit his mate once? He couldn’t remember if he had told his honorary godfather the name of the healer he had bullied into helping Sirius. The healer had been helping Madam Pomfrey in treating Harry, apparently she had called in reinforcements, unsure on what exactly Harry had been suffering from. Not that they knew any more now and he was definitely not about to enlighten anyone anytime soon about that.

But if Remus had not been here, then it was no wonder he was in such sad a condition that even Ron would notice. And considering Harry had been alone when he bribed the healer… no one had been here, no one had visited his godfather since the middle of June. Harry felt sick to the stomach at the thought- The door opening had him _Nox-ing_ his wand so fast, he wasn’t sure he had even used the word.

“Coast clear, handsome brother mine,” a tall figure whispered to another of similar height as they both entered the room.

“Witch still suitably distracted, equally handsome brother mine.”

Harry couldn’t make out any features against the light of the hallway, but he would recognise those two voices anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) I think, Buckbeak** was renamed in canon to Witherwings after Sirius’ death, but since Sirius is still alive in this story, I decided against it.  
>  **(*) Sunday shopping:** In England and Wales trading on Sundays was not generally permitted until 1994. This meant that shops such as department stores and supermarkets were not able to open legally.  
>  **(*) Lughnasadh:** I’m mixing pagan traditions with pure fantasy here, so don’t try to analyse it too much. I had fun imagining what wizards might celebrate and why, so it’s not meant to mock any traditions or beliefs.  
>  **(*) July of 1996** actually had two full moons, so Remus really has all the reasons to feel like shit.  
>  **(*) Asking the ward to simply key him in:** If it wasn’t obvious, that’s not something just everyone would be able to do, but since Harry had to learn to let his magic ‘lead’ him, things work a bit different for him.


	9. Meeting

As the door closed behind the second twin and the room was once again plunged into the semi-darkness of only the one reading light, Harry held his breath. He knew they would not be able to see him through his invisibility cloak, but they definitely could still hear him. And as much as he liked the twins, he did not want them to see him right now considering the way he was… disguised. He would never live that down. Not to mention he did not fancy them telling Dumbledore about seeing him, even though he was pretty sure they would only do so out of concern for him. Even so, it was easier if they never knew he was there. Come to think of it, what were they doing in Sirius’ supposedly secret room to begin with?

“Cosy,” one of them commented softly and Harry thought it was George from the way his figure was always angled towards his older twin, but that could just be the lack of light.

“Sirius, old dog,” the other greeted as if the comatose man would actually answer. It set off the uncomfortable feeling of guilt in Harry’s stomach again, made him want to snap at the twins for intruding here. That was until who he thought was Fred lit his wand and Harry could make out is face. “They treating you right, mate?” Fred continued and Harry stared at the painfully melancholic smile on the twin’s face. It looked so out of place on the fun-loving boy he knew, but then… they didn’t look so much like the schoolboys he remembered.

Harry watched the two make their way over to the bed, pressing himself in the corner, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

“Sorry to tell you, mate,” George said after a moment of silent staring at the prone form, “But you look like shit, Remus is going to go all mama wolf on you when you wake up.”

“Harrykins, too,” Fred added, startling Harry half to death with the mention of his name. “Though right now he’s busy leading the Order of the Fried Chicken around by their noses,” he said, chuckle sounding somewhat forced.

“Sneaky for a Gryffindor, that one,” George agreed and started drifting over to the table.

Harry watched as Fred (and it really was Fred, he decided) carefully fluffed up the pillows for Sirius and made sure the blanket was comfortably tucked in. It was a surreal feeling seeing the two pranksters so solemn for once, taking care of Sirius so earnestly. Harry wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this respectful thoughtfulness was not it. It eased the cold feeling that had settled in his gut when he had stood staring at his bedridden godfather.

“Hey, Freddie?” George suddenly spoke up, causing both Fred and Harry to look over at him. He was standing slightly bowed over the table, inspecting the papers and potions there. “Look at this, someone’s clearly taking their work serious,” he said, only to snort at his own words and add in a mutter: “That was a good one, if I do say so myself.”  
”Yeah, well, Harrykins wouldn’t have bribed an idiot to take care of his godfather,” Fred answered as he stepped close to his brother and looked at his finds.

Harry had no idea how the twins had managed to get passed the personnel or kept the wards from alerting someone to their presence in the room or even how they knew about it all, but he was glad they had come. Not only was it good to know someone else cared about Sirius, but Harry himself also wouldn’t have been able to tell if his godfather was really looked after the way he should be. Fred joined George at the table and the two started fiddling with the potions there for a moment, commenting sometimes when they were sure they had identified one correctly and comparing their finds with the notes. It sounded like the healer Harry had ‘employed’ was doing a decent job, even if the accommodations weren’t the most comfortable.

“You think he comes here sometimes?” Fred suddenly questioned his twin.

“Yeah, I think so,” George decided after a moment.

“Good thing the Order doesn’t know about it then.”

“Yeah, for once a good thing the Order doesn’t give a damn,” George agreed with a slightly bitter sounding snort. Harry frowned, gaze flicking between the terrible duo and his godfather.

It wasn’t long after that the twins took their leave. Again they made sure to say their goodbyes to Sirius as if the man would answer, telling him to hurry and wake up, because a certain werewolf was apparently getting angsty and not a little bit randy. Harry had grimaced at that image, yeah no, he did not need to imagine Sirius and Remus getting it on, thank you very much. As Harry was once again left alone with his godfather, he let out a huge breath. He could barely believe they had not noticed him! Really, maybe they should have been training awareness in the DA last year as well.

* * *

There was music all around the crowded plaza, like a colourful breeze weaving in and out of the different stalls and clusters of people, though Harry couldn’t place where it originated from. Laughter and a general happy buzz seemed to be positively infused into the whole of Carkitt Market, just like the mixture of delicious food scents combining with the smoky smell of a bonfire. A bonfire. As in a huge stack of wood merrily burning out in the open on a wizarding festival. How… ironically macabre?

Near the happily burning flames one of the stalls seemed to be selling ears of grain and a voluptuous woman dressed in some strangely medieval dress was showing a small group of people how to plait and interweave the grain stalks to little dolls. They were even tying ribbons dyed in different shades of green and red and gold into them, giving the dolls a cheerful appearance. Huh. He had a peculiar feeling what exactly the sacrifice Treasach had mentioned would involve. Again, ironically macabre? **(*)**

Either way, the sheer mass of people was both very different and overwhelming from that in Bandy-Legs and at the same time very infectious. The mood was warm and merry in a way that made you want to mingle and dance. Harry let himself drift through the crowd for a while, thinking back on his afternoon…

When Harry had returned from the hospital, not only his boss had been waiting for him. Wanlockhead was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking intimidating as if he had known Harry would walk through the door right that moment. And next to him on the backrest of a stool sat a rather haughty looking owl.

“Well, duster, there she is. Now shoo,” his boss addressed the owl with a scowl, earning himself a snapping beak before the bird set out to land heavily on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s been waitin’ here since before I was up,” he added with a grumble before shrugging his shoulders somewhat uncomfortably and turning to walk back up the stairs.

“Er… thanks!” Harry called after him, already focused on the feathered weight on his shoulder that was now shoving a letter into his face.

He barely registered the half-whined ‘Don’t shout!’ coming back down the stairs. It was disconcerting that this owl had found him, he had hoped only Hedwig would be able to… A sudden thought had him nearly ripping the letter from the poor animal’s leg, checking the envelope for an address. If his boss had seen that… Oh. For some reason the address was not legible. Yes, Harry could clearly read the address of Bandy-Legs (which was good to know by the way), but where his name should have been there was something akin to a smudge. Well, probably a kind of glamour, he supposed, or perhaps the letter was charmed to be only readable for its recipient... but then Harry should have been able to read it. Either way, Wanlockhead would not have been able to discern his true identity from this.

Breathing a relieved sigh, Harry apologised to the ruffled owl, accepting the slightly harsh nip to his hand before it took off again. There was the Ministry seal on the back and Harry thought back on what Ron had written. These had to be his OWL results. Maybe Ministry owls were special? But that reminded him, he needed to do something about Hedwig’s looks.  She was a bit of a celebrity now herself, everyone knew of the pure white snowy owl of Harry Potter. Anyone that had at one point attended Hogwarts with him, anyway.

His hands were trembling just a bit as he carefully peeled away the parchment. He had been too occupied with everything going on to worry much about his exam results, but now that they were here… oh well, nothing for it than look. Voldepants’ visions during the written parts were sure to have ruined a lot of his chances and he knew he had failed Divination, but at least he could be sure to have aced Defence. Squinting down at the explanation of the different grades, Harry memorised the three passing ones (O, E and A) and the one that stated he would be allowed to repeat the exam at one point (P), briefly wondering if a certain amount of achieved OWLs was needed to be allowed to continue studying at Hogwarts, before he looked at the actual results:

> Astronomy: A  
>  Care of Magical Creatures: O **(*)**  
>  Charms: E  
>  Defense Against the Dark Arts: O  
>  Divination: P  
>  Herbology: E  
>  History of Magic: P **(*)**  
>  Potions: E  
>  Transfiguration: E

He was rather dumbfounded to note that he had managed to pass Astronomy what with the whole debacle going on back then, but wasn’t about to complain. As expected he had failed Divination, but was apparently eligible to re-sit. Fat chance there, he was glad to leave that whole lump of dragon dung behind. But History… After the brief glimpses of insight into wizarding culture he had received throughout his work at Bandy-Legs, Harry wondered if History taught by someone else than a monotonous ghost lulling everyone in the vicinity to sleep was actually interesting. After a moment of consideration Harry decided on looking for some good books on the matter when he went to get the required stuff for his sixth year. Though he had no idea when or where the re-sitting of exams would happen, he was at least entertaining the idea of trying for an OWL in History of Magic.

Looking at the supply list for sixth year that had come together with his results, Harry skimmed over the needed stuff. There were books listed only for those subjects he achieved a passing grade in and no mention of History even though he would be allowed to try that one again if he wanted. Well, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 by Miranda Goshawk was no surprise, he had volume 1-5 already, same went for A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration by Emeric Switch or Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage. New was the stuff for Defence (Confronting the Faceless, no author named), making him briefly wonder who would be the unlucky sod to teach that class this year. Still, even if he took the vaguely disturbing sounding course book for Herbology into account (Flesh-Eating Trees of the World), the whole list sounded… oddly inadequate. Never before had Harry considered looking for more than the required books, but with his newly awakened thirst for knowledge (at least the practical kind) this booklist just didn’t cut it.

Yet, he knew for a fact he currently didn’t have the money to buy all that he wanted, at least not if he took into account the clothing. And that was assuming he would receive pay… He hadn’t dared asking, feeling already somewhat like a freeloader. Anyway, he remembered Hermione lamenting on the fact that updates weren’t really a thing in the Wizarding World, so going with second-hand books would not really be a problem, and perhaps he would even be okay with second-hand robes… as long as they didn’t look like the ones he remembered Ron wearing. The image of those mouldy dress robes of fourth year was something he would like to not emulate.

Tapping his borrowed quill thoughtfully against his chin, Harry got his assignments, or rather the drafts of his assignments, out and made notes on the supply list thinking about what all he would need to finish his essays in a way that wouldn’t make him feel like a complete dunderhead. And now he was using Snape’s insults, great. The money was an issue, but as rude as that sounded even in his head, maybe Remus would be able to give him some advice. He would have asked Mrs. Weasley, somehow less afraid to bruise her pride, but if he wrote to her, she was bound to tell the headmaster. Remus on the other hand would not only know how to get by with very small funds, he was also unlikely to rat Harry out to Dumbledore - if Harry managed to assure him of his safety, that is. Still, he would have to formulate it very carefully for he did not want to either sound condescending by just assuming his former professor would know about money issues, nor did he want to make the man feel guilty. After all, Harry had used up his trust fund to pay for the care the man’s mate needed when he himself wasn’t able to do it. To Harry it had just been a logical thing to do, Sirius was family and Harry had the money, so of course he would pay. But Remus was very sensitive when it came to perceived charity… and wow did his eyes hurt from all that damn squinting! Wasn’t there another way to help him read and write while his eyes were basically out of commission? His magic was able to help him around, after all…

He was still pondering this question when suddenly a large body crashed into his, jarring him out of his reminiscence and back to the festival on Carkitt Market. An arm winding around his waist stopped him from toppling over, squishing him to a warm chest.

“Well,” a voice spoke near to his ear, making Harry shiver slightly, “What do we have here?”

He was about to reach for his wand and make the bloke aware that Harry wasn’t just one he could manhandle randomly, when he found himself released. His hand, though, was caught in a rough palm easily dwarfing his own and a head full of red half-curls bowed over it.

“I believe, brother dear,” another voice, quite similar yet somewhat different, spoke up from behind Harry, “We have managed to run into a bonfire fairy.”

Glowing in the flickering light of said bonfire and the many lanterns in red, green and gold, was the unmistakable Weasley red and the mischievous eyes of the twins were sparkling at him in shades of blue. **(*)** That was twice a day and this time Harry knew there was no escaping this. He could feel a fierce blush creep up his neck, anticipating the hackling, hoping fervently Fred and George were on their own. Not only would that mean less jokes on his expense, but also less chance of being dragged away to Dumbledore. He had the faint hope the twins would actually hear him out, listen to his side of things, before doing ‘the right thing’…

“I hope my troll of a brother did not spook you, miss?” The twin from behind him addressed Harry, coming around to look at him properly. “He has this dreadful ailment of clumsiness, you see.”

“Nearly as blundering as our youngest brother, I am,” the other twin nodded agreeably, before adding with a wink: “The woes that come with being the most handsome of my horde of siblings.”

“Oi!” The other one cried in mock-offence, “Don’t tell the pretty fairy such blasphemy!”

Harry blinked between them, head swirling with the twin-talk and the situation. Did they really not recognise him or was this just one of their jokes? It was always hard to tell with Fred and George, but after seeing them this morning in the hospital, Harry believed there was far more to the two than most gave them credit for. He had always thought he could glimpse what hid behind the perfected masks of pranksters and troublemakers, but had never had the chance to truly investigate. It was far too easy to be led around by their act and it wasn’t as if Harry had had much leisure time these last years. Right, only one way to find out if this was just an elaborate prank or if the two really did not recognise Harry under the disguise of ‘Harley’.

“Um,” Harry cleared his throat pointedly to get the still squabbling twins to shut it long enough for him to get a word in edgewise, “I’m sorry for running into you like that,” he said politely, carefully modulating his voice to keep it from dropping into too deep tones, “I was… daydreaming.”

Two sets of gleaming blue eyes focused in on him and Harry felt the blush darken. That was not the evil-gleam-of-prankster-sighting-prey he had seen on the two before when they had spotted their next victim. It also was not their general easygoing manner, no, there was something else in that gaze, but Harry couldn’t pinpoint it. The way they were looking, staring, at him right now was vaguely familiar, but…

“No need to apologise, pretty fairy,” Fred (yes, he had run into Fred) answered, smiling charmingly. “I didn’t watch where I was going.”

“Indeed,” George added with his own slightly more roguish version. “Let us make up for my brother’s blunder. Do you happen to have company for this fine event?”

Okay. So, either a _very_ elaborate prank, or they really did not recognise him. And considering they were addressing him as a girl (including ambiguous endearment) they might actually have fallen for his disguise. Harry dared to breathe a little freer… until the words of George’s question sunk in.

“Ah-,” he stuttered, unsure what to say. No, he had no company for the evening, but there was no way he could pull this off for longer than a few moments without them recognising him!

“Wonderful!” Fred exclaimed, sweeping down in yet another bow, still keeping Harry’s hand clasped in his own. “Frederick Gideon Weasley, at your service.”

Before Harry could even attempt to formulate an answer, his hand was snatched away and another redhead was bowing over it, though George’s eyes never left his as he brought the hand close to his lips.

“George Fabian Weasley, pleasure,” he nearly purred and Harry suddenly felt like spontaneously combusting. He had never before been on the receiving end of this kind of …flirtation? It was different from the rough teasing at work, this was far more refined, far more intentional. _Were_ the twins flirting with him? HIM?! “And you would be, Miss…?”

Right. Nothing for it.

“Harley,” Harry answered after a second of hesitation. The twins had never gone out of their way to prank him, for some reason declaring Harry early on as mostly off limits, so he felt somewhat reassured that they wouldn’t draw it out like this if they really were pranking him. “Um… nice to meet you?”

George blinked at him and he thought he saw Fred goggling a bit before he questioned: “You wouldn’t be _the_ Miss Harley? The waitress with the kick-ass reputation of that bar in Knockturn?”

What the… oh by Godric’s need to compensate with unnecessarily long swords! He couldn’t escape creating some ridiculous sort of fame for himself, could he?

“Now you simply have to honour us with your presence,” George decided with a broad grin, “We’re somewhat your fans, heard all about how you’re ruling that bar. I have to say, though, you’re a lot more delicate than I expected considering those rumours.”

Fred nudged his brother in the ribs, taking hold of Harry’s free hand in the same motion, then placing it in the crook of his arm.

“Don’t listen to George blabbing, he thinks he can imitate my awesomeness,” he winked at Harry again, before adding: “He doesn’t get that there’s more to my charm than words.”

Harry didn’t really get to do more than nod a bit confusedly. The next minute he found himself between the two, George still holding his hand, Harry’s other in the crook of Fred’s arm. They were leading him around the festival, drawing him into small talk and for all intents and purposes trying to charm Harry’s stockings off. He had no idea how he found himself in this situation, but he had to admit the twins were great company. Suddenly the festival of Lughnasadh was more than a fascinating insight on wizarding culture, it was a fun evening with friends… even if those friends didn’t truly know who he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /snicker  
> Okay, so, maybe the hospital scene was a bit mean, but I needed Harry to see another side of the twins when they thought themselves unobserved... Anyway, we’ll get to see some more of what happens at the festival next chapter. 
> 
> **(*) Lughnasadh:** Again, I’m mixing pagan traditions with pure fantasy here, so don’t try to analyse it too much. I had fun imagining what wizards might celebrate and why, so it’s not meant to mock any traditions or beliefs.  
>  **(*) Harry’s OWL results in Care and History:** I upgraded them (from E to O and from D to P), because I like the idea that Harry has an affinity for all kinds of animals and also because I want him to be able to re-sit his History exam. It doesn’t change his canon result of 7 OWLs.  
>  **(*) In canon the twins’ eye colour** is actually brown and they aren’t all that tall, but hey, artistic freedom.  
>  -  
>  **Question for you:** What do you think is the most important difference between Fred and George’s characters? Just tell me what you either got from canon or imagined in your head canon, please.


	10. Glittering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who took the time to tell me their opinion on the twins and their differences. After reading through your ideas, I decided to go with the following:
> 
> Fred: Gryffindor (shorter fuse)  
> George: Slytherin (more of a planner)  
> No, they haven't been sorted into different houses or anything. They each have traits of both houses, but some are more prominent in one twin than in the other. This way they even each other out.
> 
> Chapter goes with a wink at **xxCAPXLOCKxx**.

_Large hands had a gentle hold of his waist, guiding him to the music that had slowed down from the loud and cheery stampede of the bonfire dance. Now couples were swaying contently in the last flickers of the burning embers, most lanterns nox-ed to give the plaza a dreamy feeling. Nothing felt real in that moment, not the warm hands on his waist, nor the slightly cooler ones on his hips. Not the mischievous spark in blue eyes…_

HOOT!

Harry fell out of bed with a thud, sheets tangled about him and hair in disarray. There he lay for a few long moments before sitting up, glaring at a certain owl balefully. He wasn’t sure what he had been dreaming about, but it had been very plea- Harry blushed profusely as the memories of the last night came back to him. He had visited the festival on Carkitt Markett and literally run into the twins. Fred and George had then proceeded to be the perfect gentlemen towards the girl without company, their ‘bonfire fairy’. Harry groaned, utterly mortified. He had agreed, had let them show him the festival, had let them treat him to snacks and games, had not protested being referred to as a girl they had just met.

He was so dead if they ever found out.

Another impatient HOOT! had him blinking up at Hedwig restlessly shuffling back and forth on his windowsill. That’s right, he had sent her out to Remus yesterday before he went and made an utter fool out of himself with the twins… 

> _Cub,_
> 
> _I’m glad you managed to visit Sirius, though obviously I am obligated to scold you for your recklessness. Feel yourself duly chastised._
> 
> _Right, that out of the way: Are you safe, Harry? I am not asking you to tell me where exactly you are at, even though I wish I could be there with you. Just tell me you know what you are doing and that you will be careful, please. If you need a place to stay, you will always be welcome in my flat, the address is listed below. I am currently staying at Grimmauld to keep an eye on the Order, so no one will be going there, and the contract is still valid until sometime in September._

Remus’ words were soothing in a way he had not expected. After visiting Sirius in the hospital, Harry had just wanted to distract himself from it all, from the guilt, from the horrible sight his comatose godfather had made. Yet, reading Remus’ letter felt like the comforting way the werewolf used to hug him, all protective and gentle and warm. He looked at the address, noting he would need a map if he ever wanted to make use of the offer. 

> _To answer your question regarding budget: There are a few tips to work with small funds if you have access to Gringott’s. As a werewolf I may not be allowed to own a vault, but the Goblins have found ways to at least partly circumvent this issue. They will convert muggle money into Galleons and the other way around directly without the need for a deposit. The exchange rate is very much in favour of the Goblins, so it will always be more profitable for you to exchange wizarding currency into the muggle equivalent. The other way around will not get you the same values in the wizarding stores._

Wincing at Remus completely rumbling him and his sad excuse of careful phrasing, Harry thought about that. He was sure Hermione would have her piece to say about this newest unfairness concerning those coming from the Muggle World… but Harry himself was more invested with the blatant mistreatment of creatures. Not allowing them a vault?! From talking and listening to the wide variety of creatures visiting Bandy-Legs Harry knew a lot about the Ministry’s disregard and in some cases open restrictions on creatures. And it made him want to shove Shacklebolt’s head down Wanlockhead’s filthy toilet. Or, better yet, Fudge’s head as the former Minister was more likely the one responsible for all those horrid laws. Him and that disgusting little sycophant Umbridge.

Breathing deeply, Harry tucked his rage about the treatment of creatures as far down as he could, and continued on reading. _  
_

> _Therefore: If you buy food, go to the Muggle World to do so. The wares may not be magically grown, but definitely cheaper. The same goes for clothing, if you know where to look. Try to keep away from the tourist spots._
> 
> _As for books on magical topics, there are always second hand shops, I particularly enjoy the one on_ _Oblique Lane_ _, an underappreciated side street of Diagon Alley. There you should be able to find most of your schoolbooks, unless they are newly published. For your reference material I would actually recommend you visit the wizarding public library on Vertic Alley. Sometimes they even give away books that have been sorted out for one reason or another._ **(*)**

Vertic Alley? Another one of those streets Harry had not paid attention to before. He so needed to go exploring, that was for sure. And a public library? That may not be the perfect solution, but it wasn’t like he had any room to house those books if he bought them instead. Alright, he would go and look for that second hand shop for his damn course books and then… yeah, he had better plan ahead, if he entered that library with the way he felt about everything right now, he was bound to do a Hermione and hibernate there. Nope, he needed to make other purchases first.

Reaching under his bed to where his schoolbag resided, now housing his invisibility cloak and the moleskin pouch with the few coins he owned, Harry briefly contemplated what he would be able to get with 9 Sickles and 6 Knuts. If he remembered correctly, that weren’t quite 3 Pounds… Seriously, he would never be able to afford any books at all like this. And another thought made itself known, a thought that had been biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike like the snake it made Harry feel like just thinking it: Was it even worth it? Did he even want to return to Hogwarts at all? 

> _Harry, I know what you have done for Sirius and I, and I know you do not want me to dwell on it, but please let me know if I can help you in any way. Also, keep an eye out for Order members, Albus is not happy with you going against his wishes. I would feel better, if I knew you to be safe, but I can understand your need for freedom. Sirius also would agree with me. You deserve to make all the experiences that were kept from you in the past. Voldemort’s actions should no longer dictate how you live your life._
> 
> _Take care._
> 
> _Remus_
> 
> _p.s. Is that Hedwig you sent your letter with? Clever camouflage, though I think, she was not as appreciative._

Glancing up at his still agitated owl, Harry once again wondered about a method to change the colour of Hedwig’s plumage more permanently. Or, well, not permanently, only longer lasting. She had not been happy with him unceremoniously dying her in a nondescript brown before sending off his letter, and was still giving him the ‘silent treatment’, but the colour was already fading. There was no way she would let him do that again, so he needed another way of messaging his friends. If he had the money to spare, he would simply use the Owl Post Office.

With a sigh Harry flopped back on his bed, mind readily going back to the festival of Lughnasadh, dancing with the twins, something he never would have thought could be so much fun. It probably helped that he had not been expected to lead this time, or that the dances hadn’t really been anything formal. In fact, the dance around the bonfire with the sacrifices had been pretty much a happy tumble, rhythmic beats and merry melodies blending together and animating the people. It was only later, when the families with children had already left, and the music had changed to something calmer, more mystical…

Blushing at memories of hard muscles beneath his hands, being pulled close, but not intimately so… and swaying to the music between both George and Fred shortly before he had decided to leave. It was all a bit much, overwhelming, unknown territory. They had been actively flirting with him! Or, well, with Harley.

With yet another sigh, Harry rolled out of bed to get ready for the day.

* * *

Clothing was definitely on top of his list. He knew, he should be thinking practical and invest in unisex clothing, he could always continue transfigurating… but he really didn’t want to. As much as the mere thought made him blush, Harry really wanted to get some real skirts and dresses and… whatever else only girls generally got to wear. And considering he was in London, he probably wouldn’t get more than a second glance even if the muggles noticed he wasn’t quite as female as he pretended to be. There were a lot of crazy fashions going on in the Muggle World and London was ideal for those who didn’t want to conform quite so much. It was actually the reason Aunt Petunia had mostly avoided going into the more fashionable parts of the city, fixated on ‘normality’ as she was.

So shopping in muggle London it was, though he would have to look for at least one rather conservative outfit between trying out the varieties of fashions. Maybe a long flowing dress or skirt and something with a high neckline to wear together. Working at the pub and watching the magical folk on the market had taught him how the respectable everyday witch dressed when foregoing robes. It was all flowing lines, nearly no exposed skin. As far as he could tell they didn’t do plunging necklines, but had no issue accentuating waistlines... It was all very confusing. The dress code also seemed to depend very much on a person’s perceived status in society, as he had seen the definite difference between Purebloods …and basically everyone else.

The way he dressed as Harley was perfectly fine in Knockturn, and wouldn’t raise any eyebrows in Diagon Alley either – as long as he kept out of certain stores. Depending on the place he would either be seen as a Muggleborn or a person who was at home in exactly the place he now lived at: Knockturn Alley, the safe haven for those that either couldn’t or wouldn’t conform to the Ministry guidelines. Especially those Purebloods who maintained positions of power in wizarding society, or even just those who felt themselves above others for whatever reason, would look down upon him if he didn’t dress the part of proper witch. Yes, there was a clear difference between muggle and wizarding fashion, that much was obvious, even if Harry couldn’t really decipher the dress code. Now that he thought about it, even Mrs. Weasley stuck to long and in her case pretty simple skirts and dresses. She rarely wore robes, but Harry had seen the prices in the shop windows… It was likely the Weasley’s just couldn’t afford them. **(*)**

“Lass.”

Looking up in surprise, Harry saw Fergus Wanlockhead standing in the door to the kitchen. He had been so caught up in his depressing thoughts that he had moved on autopilot, going through his morning routine, getting dressed, even pulling up his freaking mess of hair. It was all just so frustrating, Remus’ advice was good, but Harry didn’t currently own enough wizarding money to justify exchanging it at Gringott’s. He doubted the Goblins would give him the time of day, him and his whole 9 Sickles and 6 Knuts.

Without so much as an explanation his boss shoved a glass jar full of coins into Harry’s hand. A jar he was very familiar with, as it was the one that always presided on the counter down in the parlour, laced with anti-theft wards and other stuff Harry was fairly sure fell into the Dark category. It was the jar meant for tips; you could put something in, but not take anything out.

“What…?” Those had to be nearly a hundred Galleons! **(*)**

He was pretty sure there had not been THAT much in there the last time he had looked… Though, generally Harry didn’t pay much attention to patrons tipping them, or him personally for that matter. If the latter ever happened, he faithfully stuck the money into the jar, not expecting to ever see it again. This was Wanlockhead’s pub and he allowed Harry to live here, never asked questions, and taught him all sorts of stuff. He wasn’t about to trick the man out of what was rightfully his.

“That… Fergus, I can’t-” He didn’t get to say more.

“Harley, you need more clothes,” his boss gruffly interrupted. “You know I won’t ask what led you here, but go out there and get some… whatever women need.”

* * *

Yeah if only Harry knew ‘whatever women need’. So a few minutes later he found himself wandering Diagon Alley a little aimlessly, the money from the tip jar safely tucked away in his moleskin pouch. He had wanted to protest the obvious charity, but Wanlockhead wasn’t having any of it. He claimed he couldn’t afford to properly pay Harry, or rather Harley, but also insisted that there had been never before that many patrons tipping. Well, however the man phrased it, Harry knew what this was, but what was he supposed to do? Ignore the fact he had basically no other option? Insult his boss by declining his gracious offer?

A hundred Galleons (plus 9 Sickles and 6 Knuts) seemed to be a lot on first glance, but he remembered how much his school supplies each year amounted to. He wouldn’t be able to splurge, but he dearly hoped there would be enough left to get some proper shampoo and… stuff when he was done with the most important things. Maybe he could leave out the new robes, it wasn’t as if he had grown any-

A luridly coloured advertisement caught his attention and Harry found himself walking closer, squinting at the slogan promising to help witches remove “warts and worse”. Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions drew him in before he could think about it too much. It wasn’t as though he knew where to start finding ‘whatever women need’, anyway.

The shop was …very glittery. It was a corner store with not much space, but one whole wall was covered in rows upon rows of potions of all kind. They seemed to be well-ordered, maybe even colour-coded… and that was where Harry’s understanding of what kind they were ended. Well. Turning around, he caught a glance of the opposite wall before he was accosted by who he assumed to be Madam Primpernelle personally. She was a vision. Harry supposed she could probably be called pretty, but it was honestly hard to tell with all the glitter and colours that seemed to swathe her whole form. Her eyes were done up in some shimmery golden… stuff with glittery stones following her upper lash lines. The shimmer also adorned her cheek bones, her hair was curled elaborately and seemingly dyed in the colours of the rainbow. And that wasn’t even taking into account her clothes.

Blinking, Harry finally managed to focus on her words, though considering her own assessing gaze she had been just as caught up in perusal as he had.

“Well,” she declared, hands on her hips, “It is about time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) Oblique Lane:** A side street of my own creation. The name, just like Diagon Alley etcetera is a play on the term ‘oblique line’, though obviously not a great one ;)  
>  **(*) Vertic Alley:** Another creation of mine, a play on ‘vertically’.  
>  **(*) I think, in a society like the one I’m painting here,** with the restrictions, beliefs, but also possibilities, it would actually be less expensive to only buy the fabric and make your own clothing like Mrs. Weasley is known to do. Whereas in the Muggle World it definitely costs less to buy the finished product.  
>  **(*) The tips** are oriented on the average wages for ‘full-time manual females under the age of 18’ in 1996. Harry works roundabout 40 hours a week.  
>  If he theoretically gets 3 Pounds an hour, that makes 120 Pounds a week, 480 Pounds a month.  
> 1 G = 4,97 Pounds  
> makes about 96-97 G a month


	11. Primping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy whatever-you-may-believe-in that just so happens to fall around these days. And if there’s nothing, just feel yourself smiled at. :)
> 
> Curtsying at **hothead** here.  
>  Also a nod to **Rose_Haven** and **Come Along Pond (GypsiesMoonleigh)**.

His hair was meticulously clipped back and out of his face, his left hand was clamped down into the cushion of the old-fashioned barber’s chair he sat in, while his right was cramping around his wand hidden in the folds of his skirt. There was some kind of cloth covering the entirety of his face and his skin was prickling from the latest potion that had been applied.

Harry had no idea how he had ended up like this.

One moment he had been slightly lost and confusedly stepped into Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions, the next the lady in question had whisked him behind some curtain in the back of her shop, sat him down, and started in on him. First she had made sure all of his hair was suitably out of the way (including clucking her tongue at its condition), then she had wiped his face down with a cotton ball drenched in an unknown potion, before having him wash his face with what appeared to be simple water. At that point his skin had started to feel itchy and she had shushed all his questions by yet again applying something to his face. He nearly jumped out of the chair when his skin started to heat up under the potion, but once again let himself be calmed. All the while Madam Primpernelle had chastised him about his blatant lack of care towards his ‘poor neglected skin’ and had asked ‘what by Hufflepuff’s barrels’ he had thought he was doing to his hair.

Now he was to sit still and let whatever was on the cloth soak into his skin. Actually, he was meant to relax while that happened, but sitting someplace he didn’t know with even less eyesight than he had come to work with these last weeks… Yeah, relaxation was as far from it as it could get for him.

“Now, love,” Madam Primpernelle’s voice startled him into drawing his wand from its hidden place, only to nearly drop it when he felt deft fingers in his hair, “It’s a slow day, so I’m all yours for now. Really, witches these days, not an ounce of understanding where true beauty comes from.”

She clucked her tongue again and Harry wondered if he was included in those scorned witches. He felt her struggle with the tight knot he had put into the piece of string he used to keep his hair in a bun… and then there was a clear SNIP as she decided to cut it instead. If Harry flinched at the sound, it had nothing to do with him imagining her cutting off his hair. Nope. Of course not.

“They all just think to apply more and more make-up to hide their ugly mugs, but totally neglect to go looking at the root for what actually causes the problems they so desperately are trying to hide!”

He had no idea what she was going on about, but made an understanding sound just in case. It reminded him a bit of when Hermione would get into a rant and him and Ron would just nod along and agree verbally at intervals. They even had a routine of whose turn it was without being too obvious about the fact they were completely lost on what Hermione was going on about.

“Mhm…,” Madam Primpernelle said, tugging a little at different parts of his hair. “I don’t know what you did to your hair, but it is in dire need of some proper care. Luckily you have good genes apparently, your fibers are really strong. But tufty Kneazles, girl, what were you thinking?”

“Um…”

“Yes, I thought as much,” she sniffed, evidently reading all she needed to know from his eloquent answer. “Right. You sit tight and let my potions work their magic and I will treat your hair to what it is screaming for.”

Harry didn’t dare blink beneath his strange face mask, but his heart thudded a little faster as he wondered how much all this pampering would cost him. He hadn’t even made it to Gringott’s yet and he still needed to at the very least get some basic clothes. He wasn’t going to even think about his school books right now.

 

So there Harry sat as Madam Primpernelle washed his hair with something that smelled a lot like the greenhouses at Hogwarts. But she didn’t stop there and he couldn’t prevent the nervous wriggling when he felt her add something else. She seemed to take great care with this product, working it in and even giving his scalp a little rub. It felt heavenly, but Harry couldn’t quite relax. His magic was spread out around the whole shop, trying to make up for the complete lack of sight. It left him high-strung and constantly aware.

“There,” she interrupted his drifting thoughts and he felt her rinsing his hair. “This should do for now, but you will not leave this shop without proper care products for this mane of yours.”

A moment later she wrapped half his head in …well, it felt like a very soft towel, but when Harry reached up, he could only sense magic. Must be some charm. Then the cloth from his face was gone and he found himself blinking at the glittery gaze of Madam Primpernelle.

“Yes, yes, that looks a lot better, dear. Your eyebrows, though…” He sat like the proverbial Mooncalf in a Lumos as she eyed his face, tapping her wand thoughtfully against her chin. He wondered if now would be the moment she noticed he wasn’t really the girl she thought him to be. “Alright,” she exclaimed after a moment, suddenly brandishing another kind of cloth and dabbing at his face. “I will trim both your hair and your eyebrows, Merlin knows you’re in some need of proper pampering. When was the last time you even glanced at a mirror, love? Surely-”

He let her prattle on as his mind shortly went back to a certain mirror with a penchant for lecherous commentary hung in a grimy little bathroom. Well, not so grimy anymore after Harry had found the magical cleaning… stuff. Seriously, wizards weren’t appreciative enough of what all their magic could achieve! A stinging sensation above his eyes brought him back to the present and Madam Primpernelle’s focused face. Her very close, focused face. Why was she so clo- oh OW!

“What… stop that!” He protested when he realised what was going on.

“Don’t be such a baby. Beauty knows no pain and now shush, this lady needs to concentrate. And stop that scowling, missy!”

So he did. He let her ‘trim’ his eyebrows (though to him it felt like she was trying to rip every last bit of facial hair out of his skin), let her comb out his hair (which made him gasp in wonder as it didn’t hurt one bit. Apparently she had magically gotten rid of all knots.), and even let her give him a cut, though he insisted on keeping his hair as long as possible and he wanted at least some bangs. He had a disguise to maintain. She did some curious motion with her wand and Harry watched in fascination as it seemed to function as a hairdryer. Though, why she didn’t just spell it dry… oh. She seemed to curl it around her wand and…

“I don’t do nails,” Madam Primpernelle said after a moment, giving his hands a critical glance, “Oh, but you totally should get some treatment there… Go buy a book or something on proper nail care! I heard they have a new issue out over at Flourish and Blotts about colour changing charms.”

He had no idea how long he had already been there, but he was not about to let her talk him into any more treatments. He kept his nails short, that was enough, thank you very much. Finally she deemed him suitably pampered and turned the barber’s chair to actually let him have a look at what she had done to him. Blinking back from the – thankfully noncommittal – mirror was… a person blob. Damn. He really needed to do something about his eyesight!

“Err… that looks… great, yeah, thank you, ma’am,” he stammered out, reaching out with a single finger to touch his cheek.

He was a bit afraid his skin had been peeled off or something by all those potions, but his face was now much softer to the touch than he ever imagined possible. It was so smooth, he couldn’t even feel a hint of stubble. Though, admittedly, he grew very little of that and he had used the shaving charm this morning to be extra sure. It took him a moment to notice Madam Primpernelle had left to the front of the shop and suddenly the heavy weight in his stomach was back. She was putting bottles and little vials on the counter, obviously expecting him to buy whatever it was she had put together. Right. Nothing for it. Straightening his transfigured skirt, Harry went up to her, pulling out his moleskin pouch.

“This one, dear, is a moisturizing shampoo potion, this is the complementary conditioner and these little beauties,” she pointed to the tiny vials, “Are samples of some different stuff I would like you to try. All charmed unbreakable, of course.” **(*)**

Harry eyed the products longingly, mentally preparing himself to tell her no and just pay for the pampering, but he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. Was it so bad that he wanted these things? He had never cared about his looks before, but it was also very true that he had never really had a reason to. Or a chance, really. It wasn’t like he could go and get a treatment like that of Madam Primpernelle’s as Harry Potter. The paper would eat itself in glee and everyone and their Puffskein would have an opinion on his latest exploits.

“What exactly are those?” He questioned instead, giving himself a few more precious moments.

“Add this to your next bath, it will get rid of all the dead cells accumulating on your skin, but make sure to keep it away from your hair. I would recommend massaging this in afterwards, yes, everywhere. You will not regret it.”

Harry blinked. And then he reached into his pouch, asking her how much he owed.

* * *

What had he been thinking? They would look right through him, there was no way he would be able to fake his way through bloody Gringott’s as a girl! Did disguising oneself as the opposite gender already count as deceiving the bank? He had heard horrendous stories about what Goblins did to trespassers... no, no, calm breaths. He could do that, he just had to be as in-tune with his role as possible, make himself believe he really was Harley, really was a girl. Ugh.

Grimacing slightly, Harry gave himself an internal pep talk, taking care to address himself as 'Harley', concentrating on thinking of himself with female pronouns. He... no, _she_ had just to visualise what she would have to do, right. Okay. So awkward. No, Harley, concentrate... Sighing, Harry stopped half-way up the steps of the imposing building to yet again smooth down his skirt in a nervous gesture. Well, at least he had chosen a unisex name. There was no way he would be able to keep the female pronouns up no matter how many skirts he wore.

It calmed him slightly to feel the still heavy weight of his moleskin pouch against his chest hidden beneath his shirt. He really must make a pitiful sight considering he had been on the receiving end of what he perceived as charity twice already today. Oh, he had paid for the hair products, but the samples and the whole treatment on site had been free of charge. Madam Primpernelle had outright refused to take any more money than what she charged for shampoo and conditioner – though, she had winked at him and told him to come back when he had decided if the lotion sample was the right kind for him. Apparently even lotions needed to be tailored to the different needs of peoples’ skin. Harry wasn’t sure what he thought of all his new beauty knowledge, part of him kinda wanted to bleach his brain and go roll around in the mud of a Quidditch pitch.

He nodded at the guards standing at the bank’s grand entrance and breathed in deeply, imagining it to be his last breath if the Goblins should decide he was trying to deceive them with his disguise. But he definitely hoped it counted that he wasn’t about to try and enter the building’s bowels where the vaults were kept. Nope, he just wanted to exchange 50 Galleons of his remaining tips to go and buy some clothes in the muggle world.

He saw them before he had taken more than three steps into the large hall.

The bank was rather crowded for this time of day, or so Harry supposed considering it was just gone twelve… and was ridiculously hot outside. ‘Outside’ probably being the deciding term here, because the entrance hall of Gringott’s bank was cool enough to make Harry in his shirt and skirt combo shiver. But even with all the people there he could make out two distinctive figures – or, well, he could make out their hair in the crowd and could estimate from the height at which he saw their moving colour blobs that it were most likely the twins. Ron was just a tad bit taller, and lankier, Harry decided as he got closer. The twins definitely had maintained their Beater’s build from their Quidditch days, all muscled arms and backs. And he really had no idea how tall and broad the other Weasley brothers were… why was he thinking about that again?

Harry couldn’t stop himself from standing in the line Fred and George were currently at the front of. They were arguing with the Goblin at the counter and he tried stepping unobtrusively close enough to hear what was going on. Normally Harry wasn’t the nosy sort… okay, yeah, he had a nose for trouble and was curious, but other peoples’ finances weren’t exactly of interest to him.

“…makes enough of a profit…”

“Already?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“And… sure not overestimating yourselves… after all… wizards aren’t exactly…”

“We’re sure!” Were the last chorused words Harry could make out before an uptight looking wizard coughed pointedly at him and he hastily stepped back.

So they had really managed to open their joke shop, they were living their dream. The thought made Harry smile. And from the sounds of it, the shop even made a very decent profit. The wizard in front of him was still eying him critically and Harry had to resist the urge to stick out his tongue. Sue him, he was invested in his friends’ happiness, so what?

“What do my sore eyes espy there, brother dear?”

And there went the whole inconspicuous trip to Gringott’s, excuse-me-just-some-unimportant-girl-here. Blend into the background. Not call attention to yourself. Yeah. That.

“It’s a vision.”

“No, it must be a mirage!”

The twins appeared on either side of Harry, expertly outmanoeuvring the stuffy wizard that had been sniffing disdainfully at him.

“A trick of the air then?”

“Surely, for no ordinary girl could possibly be this mesmerizing.”

“A true fairy she is, brother mine.”

“A sight to behold!”

“A credit to the Gods!”

“An earthbound goddess might even!”

…Didn’t they have work to do or something?

* * *

A trip into Muggle London it was, as much as he dreaded the walk in the midday heat. Still, he would brave it if it meant he wouldn’t be subjected to anymore condescending storekeepers looking down their noses at the girl in transfigured clothes. Not that Madam Primpernelle had done that, no, but he had visited enough shops down Diagon by now to know better. And at the very least he needed some basics from pants and socks to …whatever else he could afford.

Though, it seemed he was not going to make this trip on his own.

“Oh don’t be like this, Miss Harley,” George cajoled good-naturedly, extending his arm in a courteous gesture.

“Give these humble wizards a chance,” Fred agreed, stepping to Harry’s other side.

Apparently leaving them standing as they egged each other on to ever more outrageous claims about Harry had not stopped the twins from following him. He wasn’t quite sure why he was trying to avoid them, but it probably had something to do with them calling him ‘Harley’. They didn’t know better and that simple, or not so simple, fact gave Harry stomach aches. They weren’t just being friendly, they weren’t just helpfully showing some lonely girl a local tourist attraction. No, they were actively flirting with him, trying to get to know him, and that could only spell trouble. And possibly heartache if he let it continue and inevitably started caring for them even more deeply than he already did.

“It’s okay, you know,” George’s calm voice spoke up again, his gaze intent as he looked at Harry. “We don’t expect anything, we’re not making any assumptions.”

Harry had to blink rapidly at those words. George couldn’t know how important it was for him to hear this, how much it meant. After all, the twins had no idea who he truly was, they didn’t know how many people made assumptions about Harry Potter on a daily basis, how many expectations were heaped on him. Ultimately that was the main reason he had hidden himself away as Harley.

“Just let yourself relax a bit and enjoy the afternoon with some friendly company,” Fred added knowingly… before adding a bit flippantly: “After all that kicking shady arses out of your bar you’re obviously in need of some fun.”

“Not to mention…”

“…Looking fabulous while doing so.”

“Indeed, mesmerizing you are today, Miss Harley,” George ended their twin-speak and gave him an appreciative look-over.

Harry blushed. He hadn’t even truly managed to stop the flush from inside Gringott’s and here they went again. Still, they made it seem so genuine. The heat felt less oppressive with them around for some reason and maybe it would be nice not to have to do all this alone… Though, how much the twins knew about female fashion… At the very least they had grown up in the Wizarding World, so it stood to reason to think they would know if something was too ‘out there’, right? Okay, so maybe Harry was actively looking for an excuse to stay in their company.

“Alright,” he finally relented. “But,” he interrupted the blooming grins with a raised hand, feeling slightly bad for seeing them slip off the twins’ faces. “I’m going to the Muggle World. _Clothes_ shopping. Are you really ready for that?” He challenged.

He watched George and Fred exchange glances, appearing a little wide-eyed. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the prospect of leaving the environment they knew and felt safe in, or if it was the threat of fashion… Then again, Harry really didn’t know what the twins did during their summers, especially this one ever since they had opted out of Hogwarts. He knew they would have spent a lot of time building up their shop, but…

“Well, Gred, what say you?”

“An adventure, Forge.”

“Lee’s at the shop, sooo…”

“…a free day in search of mugglemade mischief with the lovely Miss Harley?”

“No pranking unassuming muggles!” Harry declared, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the pouts turned his way. “And don’t call me ‘Miss Harley’,” he added in a mutter.

“Not?” The twins chorused before assuming identical thoughtful poses, cocking their heads in the same direction, and scrutinising Harry from head to toe.

Oh this was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if anyone notices the blatant (intentional) ‘plothole’. :D
> 
>  **(*) _“…and these little beauties,”_** _she pointed to the tiny vials, “Are samples of some different stuff I would like you to try. All charmed unbreakable, of course.”_  
>  I didn’t actually mean to make it sound so ominous, but oh well… XD


	12. Shopping - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twirling around a bit for **Beg457**. ;)
> 
>  **Goodbye 2018, hey there, 2019!**  
>  Let’s hope this past year was the wake-up call humanity needed; let’s hope this new year will show that being human means to have the capacity for both, bad _and_ good, dark _and_ light, whatever that may mean. Don’t let the fear take over. I still believe in love.  
>  Here’s to hope.

He wasn’t quite sure how they made their way there, but the next time Harry was really aware of his surroundings it was to the loud greetings the twins issued a certain bartender. Only, this wasn’t the pub he had learned to find his way around almost blind, no, this was the Leaky Cauldron and the twins were greeting Tom.

Harry winced. He really didn’t need this kind of attention.

But it was hard to be concerned when he had George’s warm arm casually wrapped around his waist and his fingers engulfed in the calluses that made up Fred’s large palm. Briefly Harry wondered about this display of affection towards someone who was basically a stranger to the twins… but was soon distracted as he watched his companions contemplate their outfits. It was the first time Harry actually looked at what the two were wearing, trying not to get distracted by the way the clothes clung to all the right places.

The two were decked out in matching outfits, playing up the twin thing it seemed. Feet encased in dragon hide boots (though considering the slightly rough craftsmanship, these were made from shed skin and likely presents from their brother Charlie, the dragon tamer), legs and hips hugged by sinuously tight leather pants, black dress shirts tucked beneath garishly coloured vests of some kind… and probably everything drenched in cooling charms (which Harry himself had yet to master, sigh). Actually, with the muggle fashion as it was at the moment, they wouldn’t stick out like so many other wizards Harry had witnessed, especially back at the World Cup. So maybe they would garner a few looks, but nothing about their getup was all that strange. He had seen a lot of cheerfully coloured outfits on his way into the Wizarding World, apparently the muggles had embraced some new trends since the last time Harry had actively been someplace other than Privet Drive. **(*)**

“It’s fine,” Harry interrupted their discussion softly, blushing a little as they both turned their undivided attention onto him. “I- …I was out in the Muggle World earlier this summer and they… they seem to have a liking for a lot of bright colours and shiny materials,” he explained, trying to keep his voice down. It was bad enough that half the pub was already aware of their destination.

“All alone?” Fred questioned with a frown.

“Well, yeah…,” Harry frowned right back, though his was one of confusion.

“That’s awfully adventurous of you, lovely Harley,” George commented, nudging his brother into the ribs not so unobtrusively.

“Not really,” Harry commented sceptically. “Are you sure you want to come?”

He wasn’t prepared for the sudden lull in their conversation and the blushes creeping up the twins’ necks. Mentally going over his words, Harry needed a few moments before he groaned in embarrassment. THAT was not what he meant, Merlin’s socks!

“Oh sweet Harls,” Fred purred after a second, making Harry flush fast enough to feel slightly dizzy.

“Beautiful Ley,” George added with a barely concealed leer.

“We’re flattered, of course…”

“...definitely flattered indeed…”

“…but we would never dare…”

“…besmirch such delicate innocence.”

They smirked, identical expressions of mischief on their faces, before adding in a chorus:

“At least not until we know you a bit better.”

* * *

The street was mostly empty, the midday sun beating down on them making Harry wish for a hat or something similar. It was way too hot to be out here and the desolate state of the street the Leaky Cauldron opened up onto was rather discouraging.

“Well, this doesn’t look all that inviting,” Fred commented as he shadowed his eyes to look up and down the asphalted way.

“A bit …grey, isn’t it?” George questioned. “What kind of material is that?” He questioned curiously, squatting to touch the pavement and making a surprised noise. “It’s quite hot!”

Harry snickered at them. Well, it was true. The smallish side street of Charing Cross Road wasn’t all that fancy, in fact, there wasn’t much at all to see. It was the kind of street people only hurried through, not one to linger.

“Have you never been out here?”

“Ah you see, lovely Harley,” George answered as he stood up and snuck what looked to be a small chunk of asphalt into his pocket, “We have been raised mainly magical, only ventured out on the rare occasion.”

Harry eyed the pocket a second longer before looking up at the twins.

“Aren’t most wizarding homes technically located in the Muggle World? I mean, most people in Britain don’t actually live in or near the shopping district and how many other purely magical places are there?”

He had always thought the Burrow was located in the Muggle World, near a village even, only layered in so many wards that muggles had no chance to ever come close. It was also a rather big property, now that he thought about it, with an orchard and some fields around it. There was also no way all those pureblood manors were located on hidden magical land like the whole of Diagon Alley was, no matter how many wards hid and protected them. The land itself would still be considered part of the Muggle World as it didn’t belong to the magical country, right?  
”There are a few villages,” Fred commented as they started down the street, “But most of them are actually mixed, muggles and wizards living next to each other. Though, I only ever visited Godric’s Hollow.”

“We, Fred and I that is, have visited some muggle places, especially since we turned seventeen,” George nodded, rolling up his shirt sleeves a bit haphazardly.

“Yeah, but you’re right, I don’t think we ever entered from the Leaky,” Fred hummed, copying his brother. Not that it helped any; Harry knew exactly who was who.

“Okay, so, I haven’t seen much of London myself,” he said as they stopped at the intersection to the main street. “Let’s just… get a map or something, so we can find a place to buy clothes?” Harry suggested awkwardly.

“Whoa,” George said abruptly.

“Wicked!” Fred issued.

Harry blinked, and then turned to look at what the twins were staring. Well. They were kinda in the centre of London, so Harry wasn’t surprised by the sudden hustle and bustle, honking, flashing advertisements, and all those crowds. But apparently the twins had not expected this. He felt it more than saw, quite literally actually, as one of the twins darted forward in apparent fascination. It was just natural for Harry to randomly grab a hold of said twin’s sleeve to keep him from running headlong onto the street. Yeah, these two might have been out in the Muggle World in a few places, but they clearly had not yet grasped the concept of traffic regulations – or seen actual cities, for that matter.

“Right,” Harry said resolutely. “We need to get away from these tourist-y spots and find some discount or sale or… stuff like that.”

That said, Harry set out towards what he hoped was a nondescript part of London, tugging Fred and George along without much fuss.

* * *

Looking around the discount shop they had found just a few side streets away from Tottenham, Harry felt slightly high on how much money he got for exchanging some 50 Galleons. He was the proud owner of 248 Pounds and had still some tips left in wizarding currency. Looking at the prices in this shop, he would have no problem buying the essentials and then some. It was a strange feeling for the boy who had always been considered a burden when it came to the muggle side of his life, the boy who never had anything outside of the Wizarding World. Though, going through the racks, Harry was confronted with one glaring issue he had not been expecting: sizes.

That had never been a question for him before, be it because he never got to buy his own clothes in the Muggle World, or because in the Wizarding World he only bought his school uniform for which he was measured beforehand. How by Slytherin’s creepy cellar was he supposed to know which size would fit him?! He wasn’t even a real girl and from what he had overheard since coming in, the actual girls had the very same problem!

Then there were the obvious differences between wizarding and muggle wear that apparently had coloured his understanding of female fashion more than he had been aware. Glancing over to where a group of young girls was giggling over something or another, Harry noted what seemed to be a very common look among young muggle women at the moment: two out of three were wearing what seemed to be a short black dress over a tight, and definitely undersized, white T-shirt. **(*)** He could probably get away with that style, at least for a little while longer. He didn’t yet appear too old to have no female curves whatsoever going, and he was still thin enough that the lack wouldn’t be strange, but… yeah, Harry simply was way out of his depths. This morning Dudley’s old shirt had finally resisted his attempts at transfiguration completely, so he had done something he had observed on a witch a bit older than himself during the festival: tying a knot into the hem to give the whole thing some sort of shape and rolling up the overlong sleeves. It had the added advantage that the fraying hems were hidden. It was fine, really, but seeing all these possibilities… it made Harry realise how poorly he had gone about the whole crossdressing thing. It was frankly a sign of his insane luck that no one had called him out on it yet.

“You know,” Fred’s face suddenly appearing between two dresses on the rack in front of Harry commented, “That’s not the kind of store someone like you should shop at.”

“Someone like me?” Harry questioned slowly, not quite sure he wanted to know what Fred was talking about.

“Well,” George followed up from right behind Harry, making him jump a bit in place, “I’d imagine the shop owners that are more personally invested in their wares would be scrambling to have them worn by a beauty such as yourself.”

“Could only be considered positive advertisement,” Fred nodded in agreement.

“But-”

“No buts, pretty Harley,” George interrupted, slinging his arm once again around Harry’s waist and turning him around.

“Let these formidable gents show you the places you should grace with your presence,” Fred added as he stepped around the rack and snapped up one of Harry’s hands.

There was faint squealing in the background.

* * *

They had apparated behind a few garbage cans in the backyard of some store or another… and Harry wanted to puke. In fact, he dry-heaved for several minutes, questioning what the fuck he had thought trusting Fred and George Weasley to take him travelling the magical way. He knew all sorts of magical travel hated his system, brooms excluded. Apparition obviously wasn’t meant for him either. It was like being forced through a tight rubber tube, his eyeballs felt short of imploding, and he couldn’t bloody breathe…! **(*)**

Harry had no idea where they were, though the twins assured him (between soothingly patting his back and telling him to just breathe through the need to regurgitate his breakfast) they were still in London. Side-Apparition was considered even more difficult than apparating on your own, not to mention over longer distances… and they admitted to not being able to pull it off. Yet. Harry wasn’t sure if he should be glad about that or not, and didn’t prod further.

Stepping out from behind the building, he realised this was a shopping district of some kind, though not a spot tourists were likely to stumble across. It wasn’t quite Bond Street, but a more upscale department store, the kind where you could find small branches of luxury shops in-between the more affordable stuff. So he let them lead him in and further in and… between all the mannequins wearing pretty slip dresses, tailored skirts and trouser suits, but also something the tags called baby doll dresses and shirts. Harry briefly wondered why maternity fashion would be presented alongside everything else – he somehow had the notion these kinds of clothes were always presented in their own specific corner or better yet their very own stores. Sounded like a profitable business to him anyway…

“Alright, beautiful Harls,” George started, interrupting his confused thoughts.

“Pretty Ley,” Fred continued.

“What do you think of these?”

He held up a skimpy short dress and a skirt with what appeared to be some kind of print likened to animal furs… a big cat, Harry thought…

“Or these?”

“Or, better yet, these?”

That last suggestion was a pair of very short …shorts. Something called ‘hot pants’ …yeah no. Harry blushed rapidly at the looks on the twins’ faces as they presented him with the too-short-to-be-more-than-underwear pants. Not only were they practically indecent, they were also so tight they would reveal certain parts Harry definitely needed to obscure. And there was no way he would wear anything featuring animal prints.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” A sugary sweet voice interrupted their antics as a woman around her mid-twenties appeared seemingly out of no where. “Maybe some nice- …oh.”

The shop assistant, or whatever she was, had finally noticed Harry and was eying him with a barely hidden sniff of disdain. She had clearly not seen him before as he had been standing behind the tall twins and was now taking in the rather threadbare re-utilised shirt with an unimpressed stare. Though, she seemed to nod in approval at the current fluttery skirt he had transfigured out of one of Wanlockhead’s old shirts. Yeah, excuse him for being a bit short on clothing. But considering the way she was ogling Fred and George, Harry rather thought he was not about to be kicked out of the shop by yet another condescending bitch. Yup, had happened to him once already, though not quite literally. Still, no one wanted to stay in a shop when the very owner looked down their nose at you.

“Well, miss,” Fred spoke up after a tense moment, giving a shallow bow and a disturbingly charming smile, “Our friend here has recently lost her luggage and is in need of a lot of your illustrious garments. Would you mind lending your expertise on the matter?”

And there the nightmare began.

 

Somewhere between being shown uncounted pairs of slim fitted pants he would never be able to wear no matter how nice he thought the bright colours were, and looking at beautiful slip dresses of so many varieties, Harry had a sudden epiphany. He had just been admiring the different fabrics muggles seemed to favour at the moment - it was so soft! – when a sudden thought struck him. Maybe it was George brushing a wayward curl out of Harry’s face as he showed him an especially shiny article that pretended to be a shirt of some kind, or maybe it was Fred touching Harry’s cheek in a seemingly careless gesture that still lit alight his senses…

Dropping the ridiculously glittery skirt he was holding, Harry nearly sprinted towards the next mirror. Inches away from the surface to counteract his horrendous eyesight, he stared at his scar, the iconic stamp that branded him like cattle to the populace, made him always recognisable, unmistakably identifiable… And suddenly Harry knew why Madam Primpernelle had not screamed for the next reporter available as she trimmed his eyebrows, why the twins didn’t look right through his mediocre disguise. It had faded. Whether due to the lack of Horcrux or maybe through the various potions the lady had used on his face – it was nearly gone. Oh it was still visible, but… it didn’t stand out, it wasn’t raw and red and looking short of exploding like the damn soul shard that used to fester there was trying to claw its way out. It was nothing but a slightly silvery line that would be easily hidden with a little bit of make-up. He would probably not even need half as much as Aunt Petunia caked on her face every morning.

Everyone knew the scar on Harry Potter’s forehead.

On the photos made shortly before the whole Ministry debacle it had been especially aggravated, red and irritated looking. A harsh slash into the skin that marked him in so many ways. The stamp of the Chosen One.

And now it was gone. Gone like a leash he hadn’t noticed was there.

“Harley?”  
”Are you okay, gorgeous?”

The twins asked from outside the cubicle he had sprinted into. As Harry hadn’t closed the curtain, they could easily see him staring at his reflection like Draco Malfoy during his morning primping routine. Yet, they didn’t step inside with him, but kept a respectful distance.

“Ah…I-I’m…yes,” Harry stuttered after a moment, giving the faded scar one last glance, “I’m fine, sorry.” He made a flapping gesture with his hand as if to shoo away the topic. “I’m just a bit… overwhelmed with all the choices, I think.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He really had no idea what he was doing and the stupid shop assistant was more concerned with flirting with the twins than actually helping Harry. So far George and Fred had not actively denied her, though they hadn’t really flirted back either and… why was this annoying him so much anyway? There was a moment of silence during which the twins shared a look that seemed to contain a whole conversation and Harry tried not to look too guilty. This was all so wrong, why was he still holding onto the whole Harley farce? He was basically lying to two of the people he trusted the most and-

“Okay,” George said in a decisive tone of voice.

“Right,” Fred agreed with a nod.

“How about you stay here and wait for your two faithful companions to bring you some assorted fashion items, lovely Harley?”

“I’m not sure that’s-” Harry tried to interrupt, still remembering the outrageous stuff the two had chosen just moments before.

“We promise,” Fred spoke over him.

“…sweet Harley…,” George added with a roguish half-smirk that rapidly melted away into an honest expression as Fred added: “To take care of it.”

Right. For the moment there wasn’t really anything Harry could do about it, he really needed the help, and it wasn’t as if the twins had been forced into any of this. They had even told him themselves they weren’t expecting anything! Whatever that was supposed to mean… Anyway, Harry found himself nodding and then watched as the twins made their way through the shop, deliberately going through the different sections, and piling various outfits into baskets they had found Merlin only knows where.

And if they didn’t spare the shop assistant more than a glance in passing, completely focused on their mission of helping out Harry… Well, no one needed to know what exactly had Harry smiling so brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) Fashion of 1996:** High-shine fabrics such as satin, metallics, sequins, microfiber, vinyl and silk…  
>  **(*) Short black slip dress** worn over a tight, undersized white T-shirt: yes. Very typical for the 90s.  
>  **(*) In canon Harry gets side-along apparated** for the first time by Albus Dumbledore in 1996. I liked the correlation :D


	13. Shopping - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some nice twin blushing for **Tabella_Martem** ;)  
>  Also, please keep in mind that this story is set in the 90s and so is the (muggle) fashion sense.

Harry carefully pulled his newly pampered hair out of the collar of one of the blouses the twins had chosen for him. He was currently alone in his changing cubicle thingy, thank Merlin for that, and going through the two mountains his companions had decided he was to try on.

Straightening out the bow, Harry cocked his head. He vaguely thought he had seen some of the women on Privet Drive wear something similar… No, he corrected himself, he had seen Number 9 wear something like this in a smart combination with a pencil skirt (He wasn’t sure if he should be proud that he now knew the correct term for this type of skirt.) and some rather high-heeled shoes when leaving for work. The lady of house number 9 on Privet Drive was cause for a lot of gossip between Aunt Petunia and the other stay-at-home wives, because Number 9 had a job. Being surrounded by tough women in the Wizarding World on a daily basis, Harry had never quite understood what the problem was, but… Anyway, this was the kind of blouse the employed lady from Number 9 wore and Harry could see why she would. It was very flattering, even on him, and nicely concealed the fact he didn’t have any kind of bust. Also, it was _so soft_! And it came in a lot of different colours and patterns. Yes, he definitely could see himself wearing more of these. **(*)**

Now, what to combine it with? George had chosen some of the nice trouser suits, or rather, he had chosen the trouser parts. They would likely look good in combination with this kind of blouse, but there was no way Harry would be able to hide certain not so female parts. With a sad sigh, he dismissed any kind of trousers for the time being. Perhaps magic could help him in hiding a certain bulge? Well, he would look into it later. He would still need to get his hands on some male clothing for school, though… Or he could sneak back to the Dursley’s and get his trunk. But… oh! Fred had chosen some skirts of different lengths and varying colours. Some were really long, others indecently short, but Harry tried them all on, happily losing himself in the fabrics. He had just pulled up one that fell down to beneath his knees when he heard movement outside his changing space.

“Harley, pretty? You decent?”

“Y-yeah,” Harry sputtered, smoothing the skirt uncomfortably, “What is it?”

A chuckle that made him blush slightly. Did the two have to sound so… so…

“Georgie and I would love to see if these garments are worthy of your glorious self,” Fred declared in a sing-song tone of voice, making Harry scowl.

“Glorious my arse…,” he muttered, but was interrupted as the curtain preventing his embarrassment was moved just enough for George to glance inside.

“Excuse my brother, still trying to imitate my charm, he is.”

“Oi!” Was heard from just beyond the curtain and summarily ignored.

“Sweet Harls, I think…,” he murmured softly taking in Harry’s figure from head to toes.

“…you need some help there,” Fred added, voice a low rumble from where he suddenly peered over his brother’s shoulder.

“Wha? No, I… what do you mean?” Harry fumbled, patting at his clothes a bit restlessly. Had he somehow messed up? The skirt did look a bit askew…

“Just,” George said, unceremoniously shoving his brother’s head away as he slipped into the cubicle, “This…” He reached out towards the skirt, but stopped barely short of actually touching, and waited for Harry to give the go ahead. Harry, not seeing what the big deal was, nodded, and was rewarded with a small smile. “I believe is meant to sit right… here.”

Harry abruptly blushed as George slipped two fingers into the waistband of the skirt, his heart thudded heavily in his chest as large hands gently tugged the cloth up. This close he could smell George, it was an enticing and spicy scent, but Harry couldn’t really place- he blinked rapidly as the twin stood back. Huh. That was weird. Looking down, Harry noticed the skirt’s waistband had been pulled up to just an inch or two above his actual waist, leaving it flowing nicely around underneath. Just like the blouse with the bow concealed the lack of bust, the high-waisted skirt gave him the illusion of wider hips. Turning to the mirror in wonder, Harry was lost staring at the soft look the new outfit created… He didn’t notice the twins bickering in the background.

 

“And this?”

Harry questioned some time later, giving the latest dress a twirl. It was what the label had called a baby doll dress, curious indeed, and a lot shorter than he felt was safe for him to wear, but… Harry would never admit it out loud, but he somehow rather liked modelling for the twins. Their whole attention was on him each time he stepped out of the cubicle in a new outfit, their eyes roving over his form, their commentary cheerful and honest, yet always managing to add in a flattering remark without overdoing it… Yeah, it felt nice and so Harry found himself enjoying the attention for once and cataloguing all the different reactions he could garner from Fred and George. He particularly liked the one when Fred started suddenly coughing, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the backless shirt Harry had been wearing, while George’s ears grew as red as his infamous Weasley hair.

“Lovely,” said twin spoke up, “If we were to let you walk home dressed like this,” he cleared his throat, a faint blush overtaking the bridge of his nose, “You would have to promise never to wear it to work.”

He looked like he wanted to add another stipulation, but seemed to change his mind. Harry didn’t have to think of the patrons of Bandy-Legs to agree; the outfit just had something very personal… or maybe intimate… to it. This dress in particular was mostly white with some embroidery and lace, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if it was meant to be so see-through… Then again, when he had scrutinised himself in the mirror, the fabric appeared to be somewhat sheer in some places, but the moment he moved the effect changed to another place, and so on and so forth. Maybe it really was an illusion of some kind?

“You know, Ley,” Fred commented with mischief in his eyes from where he was lounging on a chair.

“We heard them call you bunny,” George continued, nodding in the general direction of the other patrons in the store whose attention the unlikely trio had garnered from time to time throughout their fashion show.

“And kitten,” Fred nodded with a salacious smirk.

“But I don’t think it fits,” his twin lamented.

“Pumpkin doesn’t either, though,” Fred agreed.

“Nor sugar, does it?”

“Nope. Gorgeous you are, sweet lady...”

“But not a poppet, nor a pudding,” George shook his head in mock-sadness.

“Maybe a doll?”

“…Beautiful as you are.”

“But,” Fred’s smirk softened somewhat as he held his hand out to a flushed Harry in an inviting gesture.

“We’ll see,” George said, smiling encouragingly. Harry hesitantly set his hand into Fred’s.

“What tomorrow will show us new about you,” Fred softly added, drawing Harry close, and then leading him a few steps as if to draw him into a dance.

“Harley,” George whispered, gaze very focused on the other two.

“Little dove,” Fred added in a husky tone and Harry felt his heart flutter. **(*)**

* * *

They were strolling down a busy boulevard, though Harry’s knowledge of the capital wasn’t extensive enough to pinpoint where exactly they were, and really - he didn’t care. He had spent so much money… and he was pretty sure the twins had bought some stuff as well. Considering the shop had only sold women’s clothing, he wouldn’t be surprised to find himself with some of the more… extravagant pieces later that day. Logically he knew he needed the clothes, but really, that had been so damn much money for only very few select items. At least, if he still had his trust fund, he wouldn’t feel so queasy about spending that much. Still, Harry had a feeling they weren’t done yet. **(*)**

That reminded him: He needed underwear as well, especially with all these nice new outfits, but hadn’t planned on buying the female kind. It wasn’t as if anyone would get to see what he was wearing beneath… and if one of those idiots from the pub managed to peek up his skirt, he would claim that was exactly the reason he wore the less revealing smalls meant for men. Only now there were the enthusiastic twins out for an unholy shopping spree… Right. It was so easy to forget he was playing a role when around these two. ‘Harley’ didn’t know them as good as Harry did, so it really wouldn’t be strange that he didn’t want to go shopping for underwear with them. Did girls do that anyway? Shop for their undies in groups? With friends maybe? Thinking about the disaster that had been asking out a girl in fourth year, Harry recalled with a cringe that they did tend to go everywhere in groups. Then last year the date with Cho had turned out to be another disaster, yeah, but he was still proud of actually walking up to her gaggle and asking her out. Honestly, girls’ behaviour sometimes felt like they were intentionally making it harder for a bloke… Right. Not going down that road.

Catching the eyes of some teenage girls basically gawking at them, Harry decided that walking through the city with a twin on each side was a strange experience. He thought they were garnering looks for simply being there and then some. Though, it was probably the twins. It wasn’t everyday that you saw (to the passing observer) identical twins that weren’t just quite similar looking, but similarly _good_ looking. Fred and George had this effortless grace – if they wanted to – and handsomely rugged looks, the kind that simply drew everyone’s attention. And Harry was not a random passer-by.

“Blimey!”

Blinking at suddenly feeling quite alone, Harry grinned at the absolute exuberance his twins were exhibiting. They had come across an open front shop selling more casual wear… at least, that’s what it looked like to Harry. For George and Fred it could have just as easily been an adventure playground. Glancing at the tags, Harry was relieved to see the cheap prices, and let himself get dragged along. The twins soon were all over the place making excited noises every time something else caught their interest, reminding Harry vividly of their father. It didn’t escape Harry’s notice how the shop keeper was watching them, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care all that much. With the twins… everything felt so much lighter.

“Harley, Harley look!” George crowed, rushing to his side and nearly overthrowing some of the stands.

Blushing slightly at the shining bright eyes focused solely on him once again, Harry took in… the straw hat? He had no idea why a simple, though rather nice, straw hat caused such enthusiasm, but he didn’t question his friend. He let George put it on him, squinting a bit from under the broad rim.

“Freddie!” George called back into the depths of the shop. “Gred, get your freckled behind over here!” Harry wisely did not question that form of address. “Have your eyes ever seen such cuteness?”

Self-consciously Harry reached up to the hat, not sure if he really wanted to be called cute. Well, he supposed it was a bit late to be put off by that. ‘Harley’ had enjoyed the twins’ compliments so far… but the hollow ache in his chest every time they called him by his assumed name was disconcerting. He watched Fred rush out from the back, arms laden with what Harry had learned were called crop tops. As funny as it would be to see one of the twins wearing these, he was rather sure it would be him in the skimpy outfits. Then again, maybe wearing something that showed off his flat stomach would draw attention away from his too flat chest. And some of them really did look pretty…

He blinked rapidly at the turn of his thoughts. He hadn’t really taken on particularly feminine mannerisms, had he? Though, to be honest, Harry wasn’t sure what behaviour would be considered specifically female. What had he changed about himself so far, really? He had grown out his hair, dressed more or less appropriately, but there had to be more to being female than that. And seeing all the varying hairstyles in the Muggle World also very clearly called attention to the fact that the long hair was not much more than a cliché. There had to be more to it, but whether it was because he felt the lines between the genders were blurring to him, or just because he was generally clueless, Harry couldn’t pinpoint it. If it was giggling, he wasn’t doing a very good impression of a girl.

“Shoes!” The twins suddenly shouted, startling Harry out of his pondering.

“…What?”

* * *

Back in the clothes store they had been getting him everything in different sizes when Harry hadn’t been able to point out the correct one. Well, he didn’t feel so stupid anymore when each clothing article ended up needing a different size to actually fit him. But shoes were a different matter altogether as he learned very quickly after entering the store. He hadn’t actually ever paid any mind to the size his plain black school shoes were as those were issued by Madam Malkin with everything else that was part of the uniform. They fit, that was all that mattered, and considering Dudley’s cast-offs had never done that… No, Harry really had no idea what his shoe size was. His current transfigured sandals did fit, too, sure, but that was because he had transfigured his trainers to actually fit, intent and all that, and…

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Fred was standing close, his arm sneaking around Harry’s waist in a supportive gesture. Harry wasn’t sure why, but he felt heat creep up his neck at the sudden closeness yet again. What was going on here? Yes, he cared about the twins, he had basically grown up with them. They were his friends, but… but this kind of reaction…

“Nothing, sorry,” he smiled fleetingly up at the redhead, not quite meeting the blue eyes. “Just… muggle stores are really a bit overwhelming, aren’t they?”

Which was true, he did feel somewhat out of his depths here and it wasn’t just because he had no idea what shoe size he needed. That part would be a bit embarrassing, but hey, maybe wizarding and muggle measurements differed in that case?

Fred hummed in agreement and they both took a look around. The store they were in was indeed on the grand side, various levels could be made out from where they stood… including a slightly spastic George who was busy jumping from one shelf to the next. He was clearly fascinated by the various shoe styles, making Harry briefly wonder whether the choices in the Wizarding World were just so limited, or if maybe the Weasley’s had simply never been able to afford the more extravagant stuff. He watched as the second twin was drawn into the excitement, observed how the two would find a certain style of shoes, discuss it between themselves, and sometimes look around at the many posters on the walls. Those posters showed too perfect models advertising the certain shoes and the clothing styles they were apparently supposed to be worn with.

Harry for his part stood very still for long moments before shyly stepping closer to one of the shelves. He thought about holding different sizes against his feet to determine the size he needed, but his attention was soon drawn by the wonders that are female fashion once again. Those over there would look really nice with his favourite skirt…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) He means a pussycat bow blouse.** For those of us who aren’t native speakers, a pussycat bow or lavallière is a style of neckwear often associated with women's and girls' blouses and bodices. It takes the form of a bow tied at the neck similar to those tied around the neck of kittens, cats, and the like. Yeah, kinda sexist. It can be more or less frilly and therefore help conceal Harry’s lack of female curves. ;)
> 
>  **(*) The twins are referencing:**  
>  “My sweetheart I do not call you,  
> not a pumpkin,  
> nor a sugar either.  
> Gorgeous you are, sweet lady,  
> but not a poppet, nor a pudding.  
> maybe a doll, beautiful as you are.  
> But what only my eyes can see  
> is not all that you can be,  
> little dove,  
> sweet that you are,  
> princess,  
> mesmerizing me,  
> my love.”
> 
>  **(*)** I have no idea about prices in the UK, but just remember: It’s the 90s, things were presumably less expensive than they are today.


	14. Realising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty sure there is something for **rigger42** in this. :D

Harry stirred the water in the tub carefully with his wand, concentrating on heating in lieu of an actual incantation. As he had learned while washing his clothes with the same method, heating charms just didn’t cut it. Or maybe he was simply doing it wrong. He couldn’t recall if he was supposed to know a proper heating charm by now, but he hadn’t yet reached temperature spells in his re-reading of his school books. Cooling charms definitely went over his head.

Deeming the water hot enough, he added the stuff Madam Primpernelle had given him that morning – before the whole debacle with the twins happened. If he recalled correctly, this specific potion was meant to get rid of dead skin cells and was to be kept away from his hair. Well, the bath hopefully would get rid of the stale sweat coating his skin. Making sure the door was really locked, Harry clipped his long hair up on his head, making a mental note to find out what spell the Madam had used to keep it there. He sank into the scented depths with a sigh, recalling the last and only time he had taken a real bath. Even though the tub in the prefect’s bathroom back in fourth year had been more a pool than anything else, he found he actually preferred this humble setting. Although that might be the lack of nosy ghost.

 _“No, not all that steam again!”_ The hollow mirror voice lamented. _“How am I to accurately tell you off for your appearance, poppet? I can’t work like this!”_

Right. There was that. Not creepy at all.

Leaning back and resting his aching feet, Harry concentrated on conjuring a small hand-held mirror (sans the commentary, thank you very much). Ever since that moment in the clothes store he had been itching to take a closer look at his scar – or at what was left of it. The face in the mirror, especially up close without his eyesight smudging details, was curious indeed. The eyebrows were finely arched in a way he couldn’t recall ever seeing on himself. It did make his eyes appear bigger, his resemblance to Lily Evans emphasized. Well, big eyes were something he knew many girls thrived for and he could understand why. Personally, he could admit that pretty eyes were something he found attractive on a gi- …on people, and now his were quite the expressive feature, if he said so himself. Trailing a finger down his disturbingly soft cheek, Harry recalled all the time Madam Primpernelle had spent on his face. Well, maybe he really should invest in skin care? The result of this morning certainly had dazzled the twins…

He remembered thinking they were in the heart of London and that it couldn’t be all that hard to find some store selling care products, right? It wasn’t. But when they came across a pink monstrosity, painfully dredging up memories of bleeding hands and a certain psychotic, he had balked. Nope. He could not bring himself to do this, couldn’t get his feet to move another step closer to that freaking doll house. It really was only missing the kitten plates. Harry might have started enjoying this whole dressing like a girl (disguise! It was a disguise, okay?), but he was not going to step even a toe into this… this… pink, cotton candy madness! He also knew near Covent Garden were a lot of shops, so he might have some luck there.

The longer they had been walking around, though, the more he got the impression that there was a lot more to cosmetic and stuff than he had thought. It seemed very bothersome. Did he really need something else? He had the samples Madam Primpernelle had given him, after all. Though… she had kind of made a huge fuss about his skin… Oh well. He was sure not every girl did the care product routine.

Back in his tub, Harry lifted his bangs away from his face and carefully scrutinised his scar. He had had vague thoughts about using muggle make-up to cover it up and give himself more freedom, but maybe that wouldn’t be necessary now. It really was faded, not much more than a thin and somewhat silvery pale line. The form was still unconventional and if someone were to look at it closely enough, his disguise would be busted. But with the longer bangs and the pointers Madam Primpernelle had given him… yeah, Harry really thought he would be able to… to be free. Free of the stamp of the Chosen One.

In the stillness of the small bathroom tucked away in Fergus Wanlockhead’s flat Harry Potter smiled brightly.

* * *

It was sometime during that first week of August that the thought of not returning to Hogwarts took ever more shape in Harry’s mind.

He was sitting on his bed, trying to tame and order his ever growing jumble of notes on all his schoolbooks. This meant he was sorting his piles of ‘unimportant’, ‘vaguely interesting’, ‘could strike his fancy at some point’ and ‘Godric’s sock draw how could he miss THAT?!’ into the thick notebooks he and the twins had picked up at a stationary store. Yes, that had been another experience… Anyway, right that moment there were chaotic heaps of parchment (and shreds of the same) stuck to the walls of his little bedroom with easily cancelled sticking charms. The whole room was basically covered in scraps of his notes, but Harry felt confident he could keep track of what was where.

He had finally reached his fifth year books in his self-assigned re-reading. These last books were taking him the longest, he really had been very… occupied last year, spent very few hours actually doing schoolwork and a lot more being tormented by either his visions or Umbridge. Yeah, he hadn’t learnt all that much during that time, but he was doing his best to make up for it now. Seriously, he had no idea how he even managed to sit through half as many OWLs as he had…

So now he was starting to transfer all his notes into his books, one page per spell and whole chapters worth of interesting theory notes in-between. But he constantly had to make little breaks or stand up and walk across the rather tiny room just so he could decipher what was written on a certain parchment. Harry’s handwriting with a quill had always resembled chicken scratch, but this sadly was another problem altogether: His eyes were dry and starting to hurt and he was slowly but surely reaching his wits’ end. All this time at Bandy-Legs and he never had struggled so much. It was obvious his magic couldn’t help him with this – there was no room to lead him around, no people to identify. Only his own atrocious handwriting blurring in front of his near useless eyes. And now he had a headache.

Right, he needed some fresh air. It was hours still until he would need to be present for work and going over all these notes only served to remind him of what he still needed. He thought of Remus and his advice to visit Oblique Lane with its second-hand book shop. Leaving the pub was always a little adventure with his eyesight, or lack thereof, but he braved it each week to buy groceries. Hell, he had gone to Gringott’s a few days ago, all on his own. He didn’t count the venture out into Muggle London, because he hadn’t been alone then, had simply needed to follow the twins and their magical presences. Also, leaving Bandy-Legs gave Harry a perfect opportunity to dress up. Yeah, he had really just thought that.

Decision made, Harry abandoned his notes for the moment to go through his new clothes. So far they all resided on and around the lonely chair in his room, but maybe he could find a way to hang some of them up? He was rather sure the nice blouses and dresses weren’t meant to just lie there… no matter how carefully he had folded them. Harry had been meticulous in the care of his new stuff; it was, after all, the first time he had really chosen something for himself and not been forced to dress in whatever was available. Not even receiving his first school robes had felt like this, because the uniform followed a required dress code. This… this was something else. These were all things he had chosen for himself, things he had evaluated and tried on and decided he wanted. Sure, it helped that the twins thought they all suited him quite nicely, but Harry had fallen in love with the fabrics and cuts all on his own.

Thinking about where he would be going, Harry decided on a long, slim-fitted skirt that was tied high in the waist and somewhat imitated the less formal robe cuts he had seen around the magical streets. The cut was too severe for the flowing and colourful muggle styles of the moment, and Harry had been eyed rather confusedly for the choice, but Fred and George had agreed with him that it suited the more conservative wizarding fashion. He would be walking the line between the expensive day robes and the un-informed muggle fashion that most Muggleborn wore. To think just a few weeks ago Harry had no idea at what a disadvantage his purely muggle clothes put him. Now, with a little more exposure to wizarding culture, he could see the difference and he also felt it was somewhat his duty to assimilate himself into this world more. He was, after all, living in the magical world now, so it made only sense to him to dress the part. Having listened to the various conversations he overheard on a daily basis, be it in the pub or on Carkitt Market, Harry had a deeper understanding of the prejudice, the preconceived notions people associated with certain clothing styles. Really, it was not all that different to the muggles, simply another set of bias. Yes, he enjoyed dressing in the fascinating muggle fashions he had just started to explore, but now Harry was more perceptive of dressing appropriately for each situation.

So for a trip into Diagon Alley with the intention of finding reliable information in form of books that he possibly would have to bargain over Harry would dress the part of respectable young witch (with just a dash of curiosity and open-mindedness towards the muggle culture). Though, he would definitely change into something less restricting for the evening at Bandy-Legs. Now, dressed in the ankle-length skirt and one of the nice blouses tucked neatly in, Harry ventured over into the tiny bathroom to tame his hair. He could scarcely believe it, but the few times he had washed his hair since Madam Primpernelle spent time pampering it had worked wonders. He had had no idea that a simple shampoo, magical or not, could make such a difference.

_“You appear quite agreeable today, darling.”_

Yeah, even the damn mirror agreed. Sitting on the edge of the tub, Harry concentrated on plaiting his now much smoother hair. Oh, it was still rebellious, but it also looked and felt so much healthier. It helped that Harry was slowly getting better at doing it up in simple styles as well and kept away from drying charms. Okay, very simple styles, but hey, it was still a far cry from the riotous mane it had been before.

* * *

Seriously, this summer was intense. Or maybe Harry had grown soft now that he didn’t have to work hours in the Dursley’s garden… Wishing he had brought the cute straw hat George had found for him, Harry sighed at the oppressive heat as he reached the intersection of Knockturn to Diagon Alley. Despite the burning summer sun the midday crowds flocking to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour were not diminished in the least. He bet none of these people sucked at cooling charms like he did. Though, most people were sitting in every available shade and Harry eyed the cool treats a bit longingly as he walked past. He kind of missed Mr. Fortescue’s free sundaes.

Oblique Lane was supposed to be an underappreciated side street of Diagon… right… and going by that name, Harry supposed the lane would be somewhat slanting away from Diagon Alley… Well, there was nothing to it. He would have to search the whole of the blazing alley. If the wizarding district felt like this, he did not want to even think of the temperatures in the Muggle World today what with all that concrete. Taking a deep breath of the too hot air around him, Harry straightened his blouse’s bow determinedly. He would start right here and go down the whole length-

There was a familiar face standing close to the ice cream parlour, not doing much of anything, only standing and staring suspiciously at the crowd, and managing to appear creepily suspicious himself.

Mad Eye Moody.

Harry very nearly stopped in his tracks at the sight of the grisly war veteran looking so out of place between the families and oh-so-sophisticated other shoppers. Panic crawled up his spine as he hastily turned his head to stare at the ground, forcing himself to keep moving. If he kept going, Moody would have no reason to suspect him. But why was he here? He was obviously not doing anything that required being in Diagon Alley, he was just standing there… scrutinising passer-bys, looking for something. Looking for Harry. Fuck. Biting his lip to stop himself from constantly glancing at the man, he forced himself to believe in his disguise. It was fine. Mad Eye would not recognise him. There really was no reason why anyone would be looking at him and seeing Harry Potter. He was Harley, just Harley, a little nondescript waitress of a pub in Knockturn Alley.

Keeping his back ramrod straight and his head held high, Harry walked briskly past the ex-auror, trying his best to look like he didn’t give one Kneazle lick about the man. Harley had no reason to give him the slightest bit of attention, after all. Now he could only hope the paranoid Moody wasn’t in the habit of using that eye of his to glance through random peoples’ clothes. Could be a bit incriminating if he clocked Harry male when dressed like he was.

Now very glad for the midday crowds, Harry moved past the ice cream parlour. He kept his gaze mostly on the ground, only glancing up every other shop to make sure he didn’t miss the intersection to Oblique Lane he was trying to find. There could only be one reason why he was seeing Order members standing around the alley like sentries. They were looking for him, expecting him to pop up in the magical district like some gullible idiot. (Well, he was, but he wasn’t dumb enough to do so without any disguise!) They even had specifically staked out what they presumed to be his most likely haunts, he realised a second later. There was another one near the Quidditch shop… and... Yes, now that he looked for it, Hestia Jones was stood near Flourish and Blots.

Why was Dumbledore so insistent? The war was over before it really could start up again, Voldemort was gone. There was no bloody reason why Harry shouldn’t be out and about, there was no reason why these people would spend the summer searching for him. What were they trying to achieve anyway?

Clenching his hand in an attempt to keep it from touching his scar, Harry walked on. He wished he knew where he had to go, walking up and down the alley was exactly the kind of obvious behaviour he should be avoiding. What reason could the headmaster have to not only have insisted on Harry staying hidden away at Privet Drive, but to even mobilise the Order to apprehend him after he had disobeyed? If this had been before that last fight, before the horrific experience in the Ministry Atrium… yes, if Voldemort were still out there, even if only in spirit form as he had been up until Harry’s fourth year, he would understand. It was unlikely that Harry would have disobeyed Dumbledore in the first place if that were the case. But it wasn’t. So what was this about? The only thing Harry could think of was the Horcruxes and how he had never told the headmaster more than the basics about his experience when he had been possessed by Voldemort. He never told the man that he knew there had only ever been three of the vile soul containers. There just had been no reason to do so when the fight was over and done with anyway. He had, perhaps naively, assumed that Dumbledore already knew. As he always seemed to know everything.

Finally Harry noticed an almost hidden entrance, half obscured by overhanging potted plants and the advertisement of the shops framing it. That had to be the lane Remus had told him about, though honestly, he could have done with a more accurate description. Ducking into the side street, Harry chanced a small glance back, hoping no one, or at least no order members, had seen him doing so. He didn’t see anyone suspicious or at least not more suspicious than most magical folk appeared to him anyway. Seriously, those robes were the ideal clothing to hide weapons in and Harry was pretty sure it was only the wizarding tendency to abhor any kind of physical labour that stopped non-magical weapons from being more popular. Okay, maybe now he was the paranoid one…

Oblique Lane was a narrow and rather… oblique… street. Yeah, really. It looked a lot less lively than Diagon; in fact, it appeared to be a mostly residential area. The summer sun was throwing thick rays down through overhanging roofs, and shadows of the foliage above danced through highlighted dusty patches of cobblestone. It was peaceful, Harry decided after a moment. He couldn’t make out where the little street ended, but his magic tugged him towards the sign for a bookstore about three quarters down the path he actually could see from his vantage point. Well, he realised it was a sign for a bookstore the moment he stood right in front of it, damn his eyes.

The store was silent and even dustier than the cobblestone outside, but there was also a heavy feeling in the air, like the rows upon rows of books emanated the very magic used to manufacture them. As Harry stepped closer to one of the shelves, he realised that that may very well be the case. These were second-hand books, all of them, and he could feel the different magical residues left on them – probably even from their former owners. It was vaguely similar to sensing people around him, only much much softer. It was the sheer number of books around him, whispering, that made it possible for him to feel it at all.

“Hello?” He called into the depths of the store while running the tips of his fingers over the old and worn spines. “Anyone here?”

There was no answer, but Harry wasn’t sold on it. There was definitely someone here, but he supposed, as long as Harry didn’t try to take anything from the shop without paying first, they had no actual reason to make themselves known. This wasn’t Diagon Alley, he was the only costumer at the moment, and there had barely been anyone out on the street too. So they either hadn’t expected anyone to actually come in here, or they were keeping an eye on him without him noticing. There didn’t seem to be any anti-theft wards, at least he couldn’t feel any like he had the wards in St. Mungo’s. He shrugged. All the better to roam in peace without some shop keeper dogging his steps.

Harry started out with his Hogwarts list, going through the rows to collect second-hand editions of his needed books, but soon he found himself pulling out others. It went from books on the same material to corresponding topics and at one point completely veered off as he immersed himself in a text about wizarding history and culture and how they influenced each other. Harry was utterly fascinated and didn’t even notice when a middle-aged man with what appeared to be prematurely greying hair stepped up behind the counter.

The chapter that had captivated him into sitting down right where he was standing talked about the necessity of graduation in British wizarding society opposed to other countries. It said passing one’s exams was a must to even be allowed to practice magic. If you didn’t graduate you were essentially deprived of your innate ability to use magic for the rest of your life, and without that ability you were considered useless for the society. It was only a few decades ago that 90 percent of these people, who for whichever reason did not graduate, left the Wizarding World completely. And glancing down at a little footnote told Harry exactly what happened to the remaining 10 percent. It was not pretty, apparently, but suicide seemed to be one of those topics not talked about in the magical world. He supposed it was another culture thing and wondered if the cause was also rooted in history and if other countries handled the issue differently.

But back to the whole not-graduating-matter that ended in destroyed wands. There were no figures for the present, but Harry had a feeling they wouldn’t look much better. In fact, Hagrid was the only one who suffered the fate of expulsion from school, wand broken and all, that Harry could recall ever having heard about. Though it had been used as a threat a lot, now that he thought about it… And that Hagrid had stayed was likely only because of Dumbledore – well, and his giant genes, probably. For Hagrid there really was no other place to live than the magical world. Harry shuddered, thinking maybe he had no choice in the matter after all. Maybe he really would have to go back to school, if he wanted to or not. Then he turned the page and came across one name that had him perking up and continuing reading more carefully.

Newton Scamander. Respected expert in the field of Magizoology and bestseller author.

So apparently being expelled didn’t have to be the end of everything. That is, if the student in question was expelled _after_ taking the Ordinary Wizarding Level, because then they were deemed to be full-fledged wizards and may retain their wands, as Newton Scamander had apparently done. And look where that bloke had gone in his life!

Harry breathed a little easier then. He had sat his OWLs, had even passed seven of them with the possibility of re-sitting another, and more than that: He had not been expelled, he was only toying with the thought of not returning. Still, it was a relief to know that no one would be able to take away his wand and cut him off of his magic. He made doubly sure that he understood the information correctly, before adding the book to his pile. He would be looking for material on Ministry issued OWLs and NEWTs, because he was absolutely sure that Hermione once mentioned that one could actually take their exams there, that in modern times one was not necessarily forced to attend Hogwarts.

He found what he was looking for not long after and decided then and there that he would need to read this specific tome in-depth. There appeared to be a lot more courses available for exam at the Ministry than what were being taught at Hogwarts and Harry was confused. But if he understood the convoluted phrasing correctly, there also would be no one trying to stop him from taking certain NEWT exams. He was automatically approved for all possible NEWT exams if he could prove a passing grade in the corresponding OWL. No Snape restricting him from NEWT level just because he hadn’t managed an O in Potions. He wondered if he was also allowed to take whatever OWL he wanted considering there didn’t seem to be any official pre-exams to qualify for those… Then again, that possibly tied into the whole need for graduation thing? He was confused.

But no matter, there was now a very big point on his not-going-back list that was tipping the scale rather precariously. It also helped that retaking his history OWL at the Ministry wouldn’t stir any annoying attention and meddling as it definitely would at Hogwarts. He was not in the mood to be questioned on his decisions on this. But, if he really, honestly decided not to go back, he would need help. There was no way he would be able to master the whole material in self-study, and he wanted those NEWTs, whether they were needed or not. Perhaps he should also look for a book on careers in the Wizarding World? He really hadn’t much of a clue what choices there actually were, it had always been somewhat expected of him to follow in his father’s footsteps. Only becoming an auror didn’t sound all that interesting to Harry anymore ever since he started working at Bandy-Legs and found himself exposed to so many new experiences. Although, he had to admit that he hadn’t questioned the career chosen for him before, that he had just gone with it as he had with so many other things. So maybe he shouldn’t point fingers there. But no more. Maybe Remus would be willing to help him cram if he actually decided to leave Hogwarts…

“Young Miss, if I may,” a gentle voice interrupted Harry’s thoughts and he jumped in place. There finally was a shop keeper, it seemed, and looking at him Harry felt strongly reminded of Remus. And not only because this man was clearly a werewolf - he had met enough to notice the signs easily by now.

“I’m sorry,” he flustered, realising his position sat there in the middle of the store reading books he hadn’t paid for. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I could conjure you a chair, if you would prefer so. There really is no need for you to ruin your pretty clothes on my dusty floors,” the man smiled at him in a way that again reminded Harry of Remus Lupin.

There was something scholarly about him, in his manner, the way he dressed, even in the absolute calm he seemed to project. Yet Harry was very much aware of the underlying lycanthropic magic, the powerful wolf that ruled both men’s lives once a month… and in Remus’ case sadly also outside the full moon. Yeah, he could see why his former professor would recommend this store, if this man was the owner.

“Are you sure?” Harry questioned a little embarrassed, only to blush abruptly as he noticed he couldn’t get up as easily as he had expected. His slim-fitted skirt was restricting his movement a lot more than he had realised before; there would be no getting up without pulling himself up on the shelf he was sitting next to.

“I am, little Miss,” the friendly voice sounded a bit amused and a hand, not calloused but definitely strong, appeared in his line of sight. “Let me help you up. The name’s Lycus Job **(*)** ,” he introduced himself as he pulled Harry up with a careful tug, stepping out of his personal space the moment he regained his footing.

Harry muttered a soft thank you while patting down his troublesome skirt.

“If you want to stay out of that heat to read for a bit, the light’s best over there. You’ll have a nice view of the street, too,” Mr. Job nodded over to a wide window Harry hadn‘t even registered before.

He felt a bit discomfited being caught out like that, but hey, that skirt totally had it out for him! Anyway, here he was, going out because of a reading-induced headache finding himself back in a book shop. Reading. Hermione would be so proud.

“Thank you, but I really don’t want to impose,” Harry added, still a bit flustered.

“It is no matter, little Miss,” Mr. Job smiled, before turning and going over to where Harry had piled his chosen books. “I do enjoy my quiet, but you don’t appear all that disruptive, now, do you?” He bent down and hefted the books into his arms to bring them over to the window.

“O-Okay,” Harry agreed, taking a deep breath to regain his equilibrium. “But please tell me when you need me to leave, Sir,” he insisted.

Lycus Job chuckled quietly at that and Harry watched him conjure a nice stuffy armchair next to the window but still shielded from the blazing sun.

“It’s Lycus, little Miss,” he corrected gently and Harry felt himself blush hotly again.

“Harley!” He blurted. “I-I mean… how rude of me. I’m Harley,” he stuttered, feeling ready to hit himself. Being out of Bandy-Legs really put a damper on his self-confidence it seemed.

Harry slowly made his way over to the nice chair Lycus had conjured for him, being mindful of possible obstacles his eyes might see too late.

“Make yourself at home, Miss Harley,” Lycus nodded. “I’ll be in the back if you’ve need of me.”

And just like that Harry found himself sitting in the peaceful niche by the window, his books stacked neatly beside him, and the sound of the shop owner rummaging in the back acting the only soundtrack. He sighed contentedly and leaned back. However he would decide on the Hogwarts issue, graduation, and the whole she-bang, he would not let Dumbledore interfere with his summer. It was his very first summer in freedom, there was no way he would let anyone take that away from him.

And if he rubbed at his faded scar in the dark of his bedroom at night, searching for that _something_ that used to be there, no one had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(*) Lycus:** Latinized form of the Greek name Λυκος (Lykos) meaning "wolf". Ain’t I creative today? ;)  
>  **(*) Job:** Not talking about a job, but the biblical name. It’s supposed to be from the Hebrew name אִיּוֹב ('Iyyov) which means "persecuted, hated".  
>  -
> 
> Say, what do you think about some character bashing?  
> The whole setting basically screams for it, but I’m not sure if I can pull it off. At the very least there will be some more critical commentary concerning characters like Dumbledore and the Wizarding World as a whole, but bashing in my opinion is a bit more than that. So, what do you think?


End file.
